


Detention

by Abi_Faye



Series: Enlightenment Novellas [3]
Category: The Chronicles
Genre: F/F, F/M, Gen, M/M, Other
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2013-11-14
Updated: 2015-05-09
Packaged: 2018-01-01 14:04:31
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 41
Words: 235,657
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1044820
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Abi_Faye/pseuds/Abi_Faye
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>; you won't receive any sympathy (from those around you)<br/>because you're in to deep...</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Do You Believe in Fairies, Antonio?

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> (i do, i do!)

Frustrated, Stefanie ripped her hand back, but at the look Tony was giving her? Aha, right, fine. They had guns; they couldn't be anything but muggle cops. (And plus, he had been restraining her from murder, not because he thought her inept; she was amused). She offers a look all cute hair twirls and adorable chuckles to show she understands.  
  
Then her eyes were fixed on the detective speaking, blissfully contemplating the image of ripping into her neck.  
  
"I heard you were quick," the woman says with a small smirk, "So try and contain yourself."  
  
There's a clink of metal as she lifts a hand. She was armed too, but the gun wasn't raised: hand cuffs were suddenly dangling. Despite the smirk, her words were formal and practiced.  
  
"Detective Alys Dale, Monsieur D'Grey. You're under arrest for the murders of Bruce Mancion and Alain Roussel. So, get dressed."  
  
"You know a detective should never take in hearsay into account," he began to say but not about the murders, that information after all was accurate. He would worry later about how it was that the police department got a hold of enough evidence to issue a warrant. He had a much more important thing to defend here.  
  
"So I'd be happy to prove you wrong." Smirking wouldn't make him look innocent, but how could he resist? Someone had foiled his brother, no matter how small, and he was naked, about to be arrested by a very attractive detective. He had a profound gift of finding the amusing factor in all situations. You kind of had to, especially now.  
  
Oh, but Olivier must be livid! Someone got the best of him- erased all the evidence did he? Ha. Haha! Oh man, he could just picture the look on his brother's face right now. He personally needed to thank whoever had managed it. You know, and punch them but not necessarily in that order. Tony wouldn't do well in prison, he was too pretty for jail.  
  
"Well, it's been a few years, I think I better practice," and then he bent over, picking up his wet boxers, wringing as much water out, and stepped into them again (ugh, the worst feeling, not to mention cold).  
  
"Clothes are in the closet." He spoke as he looked up, his eyes trailing the guns again as they remained pointed at him. He had been naked for God's sakes, what was he gonna do? Pull a gun out of his ass? He only had the piece between his legs, and it could do very little for protection.  
  
"I assume you'll want to have someone bring them to me just in case there's a gun in there. Spoiler alert: there isn't." There weren't any clothes either, well, not until he spelled them to appear.  
  
"Or we can just leave now, give me hypothermia. You choose, either way," he holds his wrists up, "I'm coming quietly. Well, maybe not so quiet." He did have a right to remain silent after all, and to not answer anything without the presence of a lawyer. But while he might have the right, what he lacked was the capacity to stay silent.  
  
"I'm a screamer, you see."  
  
"Monsieur, I was commenting you were providing evidence for what I was told." Alys says first, eyes tracking his hands.  
  
Was she hearing this right? Stefanie sits up all the way now, thankful for the towel Tony left secured around her -- goddamn, he could tie tightly. It was cutting off blood circulation, but it covers her completely. She thinks he must not want to share the view. The fact she didn't recognize the two names left it clear to her they were the two thugs he killed when working undercover, but -- what the hell? Olivier had seriously failed to take care of this?  
  
"Yeah, we'll leave hypothermia out of it for now." Alys continued, unfazed as she gestured at a cop to follow him to the closet without lowering his gun, "You have a right to remain quiet, Monsieur D'Grey."    
"Unlikely," Stefanie muttered, unmoved as she watches the officer escorting Tony to the closet. And the cops! Tony took out two armed criminals -- and this was the thanks he got?  
  
"Are you kidding?" Stefanie asked, in her native tongue, but was cut off from anything further when Miss Detective Alys Dale spoke over her.  
  
"Ma'am, you can come visit your boyfriend at the precinct later."  
  
Stefanie folds her arms on her chest, too irritated and -- too surprised, to correct her initially. Instead she called to Tony, "Throw me mine too." Her teeth were aching in her gums. "And for God's sakes, exercise that right to be quiet for once."  
  
  
Obviously, he had just leaped off the chaise with cat-like reflexes, ready to attack if necessary. Thankfully, there was too much water in his brain for him to actually get into the attacking part before he realized the situation. Contrary to popular belief, Tony liked cops. He just didn't like dirty cops, and these people? Coming into D'Grey manor, shoving past him (he hopes they shoved hard), plainly saying they didn't give a fuck who D'Grey was, the law was the law? Well fuck, he was half aroused for these officers already. Good job in upholding justice guys, shame you couldn't be this thorough when Remington was alive.  
  
"No thanks," was his cheerful enough response when he was informed he had the right to silence. With his hands up, wouldn't want the cop to get twitchy around him, he walked to the closet and started dressing. Putting on his jeans, he looked up at the cop that had escorted him and then blew him a kiss and a wink, pulling up the zipper with a quick movement, and then continued. There was a method to this madness, he swore.  
  
Her boyfriend? Oh geesh, because the situation hadn't been complicated enough, they wanted to throw he and Stefanie's relationship into the mix? So he sung under his breath 'not much of a girlfriend, I never seem to get a lot- da la la la!' as he finished putting on his shoes.  
  
"Yes, Stef, I'm going to throw you your clothes all the way from the other side of the room, and pray they don't get wet," he reached for her clothes too after an eye roll (even though of course he could throw and have them reach her, but he could also be throwing a smoke grenade so really). Instead he walked the clothes back over to her after he was done and leaned in to kiss her hard, once.  
  
"Don't wait up," he flicked her nose with his finger, brief smirk on his face before putting his wrists together again, this time behind his back and turned so the cuffs could be put on. Hey, at least they weren't iron shackles.  
  
"Yeah, obviously I was being literal," Stefanie answered as surly as he was as she realized that neither had corrected Miss Dale. Though yeah, yeah, she had her hands up still and if that cop on the left made another motion to her with that gun when she wasn't wearing anything, damn all of it, he looked like he'd be quite tasty.  
  
Their hearts were beating rather fast, weren't they? Stefanie licks her lips as she listens. It makes sense though: they were arresting a D'Grey. (How the fuck were they doing that?) Ironic she was the only vampire in the room. Her lips flick up.  
  
She only has a second to accept the clothes - a thong, Tony, seriously? - as they were given to her from the officer escorting him before her apparent 'boyfriend' was taking the opportunity to swoop down and meet her lips, hard, sealing his kiss until it was a good thing she didn't need to breathe. Gasping out abruptly to cover her inhumanness around the muggles (not because he unsettled her that much, of course not), she blinked twice. He flicks her, and she scowls.  
  
"You're insane, suesser." Her words, despite her best efforts, were fond and soft. The daggers in her icy eyes pierce the lady detective instead.  
  
"Turn around, Antonio." Alys says with a half-hearted smile on her lips still, only flicking wider as she feels the steel (reinforced, given to her by a hunter) cuffs snap around the man's wrists.  
  
"Come on." She tugs, holding onto them behind his back, then sneaks her hand around his front to button the top two he neglected. Purposefully, Alys was sure.  
  
Yes, oh so insane. But like he had said before (to himself) there was a method in the madness, and a reason too. Some time away from the manor wouldn't do him so bad, it just sucked major marbles that it had to be at the precinct and potentially in prison. Especially given that these handcuffs weren't regular strength. Well, fuck, that was reinforced magically. How did Detective Dale come across magic cuffs?  
  
He looked down as she buttoned his two buttons (oh, come on, now he looked uptight), Tony smirked again, starting to walk as she pushed him, not wanting her to realize she actually couldn't move him if he didn't start taking steps.  
  
"Well thank you, Detective Dale, you're so kind and gentle," he quipped as they and the armed escort started moving out of the pool and walked to the front of the manor, seeing Olivier in full D'Grey mode and Daniella in full...well, Daniella mode. They didn't look very happy, so he grinned at them.  
  
"Hey there Mr. Grumpygiiiills," he greeted and fortunately couldn't stop to idly chat. Good, because he wasn't particularly inclined to exchange words with his brother still. Tony knew how to hold a petulant grudge. Still, he did have a few words as he exited.  
  
First, "Cazzo, it's cold!" And then, "Don't send the usual lawyer, Olivier, I hate his guts." Don't send a lawyer at all he was tempted to say but you know, he was already out the door before he got a chance to blow Dani a kiss.  
  
"Oh hon, that's sweet, but--" Alys responds in his ear, trying not to feel like he was dragging her along as she held on, "I prefer it rough."  
  
She was holding on more to the cuffs than to the man; those she knew she could hang on to. Thank heavens Dorat thought to warn her about his strength, because...hell.  
  
Mr. Grumpygills-was his brother serious? (Wait. That was a trick question). Olivier restrained rolling his eyes; though the woman at his side who had just chewed his ear off in a whisper for wondering how the hell they had enough evidence to issue a warrant (because he had more information than she did, somehow, obviously) -- she found time to blow Tony a kiss.  
  
And - yup. He really did find a way to get his first name in, great, you know maybe it wasn't so bad his brother was getting a night in jail. Maybe he should just let him rot-see how he fared without his help!  
  
(Yeah, and if it wasn't for the sickness in his gut he might be serious).  
  
"He'll be there before you," Olivier promises Tony with a fake tight smile, swallowing the 'dick' inherent in the end of this.  
  
Alys noted that the door shuts only after she has her police car's door open, Tony inside it, and she was already driving. She doesn't doubt D'Grey's word on that--his lawyer was probably already in route.  
  
"You don't seem surprised to be arrested, Antonio." She says, deciding if he was going to talk the whole way, she has nothing to gain from stony silence.  
  
Oh yeah, he could tell. The gentle remark was sarcastic. But his remark to his brother when he called him a pezzo di mierda was very sincere. Actually, yes, please stuff him in prison, he really needed an excuse to not be in that house. And see, he had done it without running away. Well, God was enjoying himself up there wasn't he?  
  
He got into the backseat, trying not to pay much attention to how uncomfortable this position was for his shoulders. Dear lord, how had Stefanie managed it? Well he imagined with some distraction but still. He wasn't putting her through that again, not that she'd let him anymore.  
  
"I am," he nodded before grinning like the cat who caught the canary. Though, he supposed in this case he was more accurately the canary. In that case, abort mission motherfuckers, this mine is gonna kill us all. Or maybe just him.  
  
"But I've chosen to focus on this overwhelming feeling of pride I have for the Parisian police. I didn't know there were so many of you that haven't been bought out, I'm heartened." He started sniffing. "I do believe in fairies, I do! I do!"  
  
As they were driving, Alys rolled her eyes at the remark but found a small smirk spread across her lips regardless--he actually sounded...well, kind of sincere. Dorat did mention the rebellion too. Her smirk doesn't move even as she considers he wasn't denying anything with the fake sniffling. Hardly the first psychopathic murderer she has in her car, after all.  
  
"Flattered as I am," she offers, turning to look both ways, her ponytail bouncing, "I'm no fairy hon, and you aren't dreaming."  
  
'If you manage to arrest him,' Dorat said, 'it'll be half the battle.' Now she was understanding; the way he spoke, what he said to his brother--unless that was code. It might be. Not the usual lawyer...  
  
She exhales, saying simply as she takes a left turn, "You go by Tony? Or is this hearsay again?"  
  
"No, if I were dreaming," he paused and pursed his lips together. He remembered the fact that this woman, this Frenchwoman detective who faced his brother directly and marched into his home to handcuff him, also happened to have a gun. So he cleared his throat instead and then just smiled before leaning forward to rest his chin on the top of the backrest.  
  
"Actually, I'd still have these handcuffs on." But like hell he would have them actually reinforced. No thank you. And there wouldn't be any guns, and they would have stayed at least one scene in the pool and Stef would still be there too. Let's not even get into the voyeurism that would have happened in the interrogation room with those one way mirrors.  
  
Oh, now he had to find a way to add that into his novel. But how to get Cariah into an interrogation room?  
  
Right, priorities, sure.  
  
"No, you're right," he yawned, not realizing how tired he was from the adrenaline that had pumped through him at waking up with guns pointed at him. "Please tell me who is giving you all this information about me. Didn't realize I was so popular."  
  
"Sit back," was all she said to the first statement, not surprised he said that. Flirting with him cost her nothing if she was to play good cop, but playing into it would.  
  
Narcissistic, she files away for profiling purposes with the fact that he had issues with his older brother. Turning off the signal, her heart was starting to steady the further they got away from D'Grey manor. The excitement of the arrest was settling in for her. D'Grey hadn't blinked the entire time she stared at him, and shivers were still slipping up and down her spine. But...it was a thrill, too. And now the right handcuffs were on Tony; there was no immediate danger.  
  
"A witness told us, Tony," she answered, smiling to herself. "Forgive me if I feel the fairies aren't going to cover my telling you the name, though I'm curious who you think it is. Protection is paramount. So go on feeling proud. Though," she turns the car again, "you don't have to hide your popularity on my account, Tony. In fact! You're famous in my circles. You and, Olivier." Please have heard the name right.  
  
"Oh, oui, madame," he wiggled his eyebrows and then sat back at her demand. See, wasn't he such a well trained criminal? He didn't try to run, didn't try to fight, and wasn't particular hostile. He also hadn't said anything that incriminated him, so everybody was winning with his stellar behavior.  
  
"Witness?" Huh. But that alley had been deserted. Well, it had been deserted when he confronted them, and had been deserted when he had 'come to', but in the middle he couldn't be sure of what happened. Someone could have feasibly passed by, but recognized his face? Because despite what Detective Dale was trying to say, no, he wasn't that infamous.  
  
"None other than my mortal enemy of course: Monsieur Javert," he answered with a shrug and then exhaled, shaking his head.  
  
"Madame, I'm willing to bet a week ago you didn't even there was more than one D'Grey, let alone know I existed," he shrugged again before sighing. "Unfortunately, my anonymity is ruined. Can't hide under a rock forever, I suppose."  
  
Her eyes flicked up to her rear view mirror as he pondered the statement 'witness' with apparent surprise. The calculated look she gave him in the mirror lasts only seconds, but casually catalogues his mild expression for insight. Doubt was in her mind only as the case had been handed to her so pristinely by Dorat--but it was more akin to wondering the circumstances. There was no doubt in her mind the man who killed the two was in the car now with her, looking to yawn now that she wasn't playing along with his twelve-year old bouncing.  
  
Their witness with the camera hadn't known him, actually, had only taken the images after realizing her vampire kink--as far as Alys could tell. She'd poured over the image with graphic specialists: it wasn't doctored in anyway.  
  
Monsieur Javert, she rolled her eyes back to the road, and flicks her high beams on to warn the few on the road to get out of the way. The sooner this one was in their reinforced cell (another gift from the hunter), the better.  
  
Still, she wants to keep him talking, and now she's curious-- his sigh wasn't one she'd peg for show.  
  
"More than one?" She asks, "Ah, of course there was more than once. Judging by the shifts in protocol, around four years ago, a few weeks after the holidays, one of them died." She looks at the mirror again. "Your father, I'm presuming."  
  
After a beat, she admits. "I pay attention, Monsieur, especially to the city I'm sworn to protect."  
  
Another beat as she flicks her high beams off. Then she finished, casually now, "Your older brother is the more infamous though, yes."  
  
Oh and what a blessed day that was. Well, except not really. "I'm glad someone is, Detective." Tony only wondered where he'd be now if he had continued his criminal justice degree. Somehow he figured nowhere near as badass as this lady.  
  
His nose started itching, and he tried to rub it against his shoulder repeatedly but never reached it. Breathing out in frustration, he sat back and brought his knee up to try and scratch the nose against his thigh. It didn't work, not too well, and he exhaled and just leans forward to rub his nose on the back of the seat.  
  
"Obviously." The elusive D'Grey, now with his first name out (kind of). Tony rolled his eyes briefly to himself and then shook his head, leaning back again to rest his eyes. "I'm not infamous, Detective," not in muggle circles, "and I'm not flattered to hear it."  
  
How interesting, Alys thinks with the second admission sounding as sincere as the first now (even accusatory, but she can't care for the judgement of murderers). Narcissistic in defense, and yet he didn't want his name known to the world in infamy?  
  
"Bad luck being born with that last name then." She says, offhand even as she was serious. It occurs to her that was probably already true. "But I'm not here to flatter you regardless."  
  



	2. Any Further Questions, Detective?

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> (yes, i'd like you to confess to killing roger rabbit too)

The car pulls into the station a few minutes later, and she wrenches the key out with a hard twist to her wrist. The scream of metal helps keep her alert where her mind was wild in the wee hours--though she better not have scratched her car. Taking a moment to rub over her chest, she snaps back out of the car, reopens Tony's door and takes his shoulder.  
  
The lights at the precinct were harsh even before the rest of the cars appear, multi-colored lights a twirl to give her checkered uniform a unique glow. Alys just holds tight to her prize, eyes front, searching out the lawyer she half-expects to pull Antonio away. Thankfully, he doesn't appear before they've reached processing --which means she'll be able to have coffee before interrogating him, praise the Lord.  
  
The cuff was only removed from one hand and that attached to the desk in front of him to give him the ability to write. Still, even as she fetches it, she watches the man with cool eyes that don't retreat their hawkish watch as he's fingerprinted.  
  
"Luck had nothing to do with it," he replied easily, smirking to himself as he thought that whatever had worked with Remington to be able to have his hybrid sons, it certainly wasn't luck. If he had to guess, blood magic rituals played the VIP part in that little shindig. He wasn't as interested in his brother to uncover how they came to be. Some truths should stay buried, The Mummy franchise had taught him that. It had also given him a deeper appreciation for English librarians and made him want to be a treasure hunter for a good year. He probably would have been in trouble with police in that profession too.  
  
They got to the precinct and was relieved there was no press around. He got out of the car and was 'pushed' up the steps to the entrance, his eyes narrowed into slits as the harsh lights hurt him.  
  
His teachings came back to him almost immediately as he was taken to be processed. Honestly, it was almost like a pre-process, definitely pre-booking, and it could take a couple of hours before he was taken to jail. The booking process in jail was even more extensive, and there was no way they were going to give him bail. He had flight risk written all over his handsome face.  
  
"Can I have a coffee too, please?" He asked stifling another yawn as Detective Dale left his side, taking a guess at where she was going. Turning back as he got his fingerprints taken (a little overeager of them wasn't it? he wasn't sure that was due process, but whatever), and the rest, he finally acknowledged the pompous son of a bitch in charge of his defense.  
  
"Hey dickface, how's it hanging? Short, shriveled, and always to the left?" He popped him a smile and continued the fingerprinting before finally bringing his hand down and using it as his own personal drumstick. He'll rock out the intro to Enter Sandman while he waited.  
  
Blowing cool air against the top of the cafe -- from nervous habit, the drink was lukewarm -- Alys stayed behind the one way glass as the booking agents led him in, watching. She was joined shortly by Vitto, being helpful as ever.  
  
"Huh. Thought he would have had horns." The man was bouncing so much she was shocked his coffee didn't splash. He'd just puff himself up more if she said that, probably mention his nickname had been 'Adonis' in school.  
  
"Horns." Alys echoes with a side-eye.  
  
"Yeah, you know, like Satan."  
  
"He's the younger son." Alys pointed through the glass without relinquishing her own mug.  
  
"Spawn of, then." He grins at her, motions at his head, "So little baby horns."  
  
Alys just rolled her eyes and took another sip, looking back to Antonio through the glass. After taking a sip, she rolled back on her heels and took the file from him. When Vitro went to follow, she flicks the manilla up and pushed it into his chest to stop him. Her hard gaze asks for her.  
  
"Going to be your bad cop Dale, you know."  
  
"No."  
  
"I assume you've been all cozying up, flirting--he's blowing kisses through window and all."  
  
"Vitto."  
  
"What? I don't blame you. He's cute. I'll tell you what though, before you go too far, make sure to look for cloven hooves. Or a little forked tail." He gestures with his fingers, smirking and wiggling through the air.  
  
She rolls her eyes, gestures over him at the chief to point, telling him to go with her, then walks brisk through the door, letting it swing shut behind her. As she tosses the file on the table, she looks at his counsel (oh hell, hate his guts was right)  to extend her hand introducing herself, "Detective Alys Dale", and then looks back at Tony without waiting for a response.  
  
"Sorry to interrupt your night, Tony." She says genially, smirking in a way that doesn't meet her eyes, "Your girl's cute."  
  
Horns. Ha. Cute. Tony had to strain his hearing a bit but it wasn't as if the glass was particularly thick; he made out what they were saying as if they were whispers at the back of the room. Thankfully, Tony had always been a gossip queen. XOXO, Gossip Tony.  
  
He licked his lips, smirking briefly and then passed his free hand through his hair to check for said horns. Nope, no horns, or baby horns that he could feel. Maybe those would grow when he evolved from Tony to Tonyzard.  
  
Detective Alys Dale entered again a few moments after, introducing herself to his dickfaced counsel, Orestes Salvant. Even his name was pretentious, okay, Tony didn't like him. He was too good at what he did, obviously, or else he wouldn't be working for Olivier. Orestes stood to shake her hand and then sat back down.  
  
"I forgive you," he answered back with a smile before remarking, "Puppies are cute, Detective, she's beautiful." Might as well be as accurate as possible here after all.  
  
"So, Detective Dale. Any relation to Dale, the Rescue Ranger?" He raised his eyebrows and then sucked air through his teeth to mimic a cute little chipmunk. His attorney was not impressed or amused with Tony, obviously, and ignored him completely as he spoke with the file open in his hands.  
  
"Miss Dale-."  
  
"-Detective- Dale, Orestes," he corrected his amiable (he scoffed) counsel, "Didn't your mother ever teach you to respect women? Especially ones that carry guns?" It seemed a bit of common sense, really. He looked away from the dickhead and turned back to Alys, smiling.  
  
"Have some questions for me, Detective?"  
  
"My client will not be answering any questions."  
  
"Just the ones I find a smart comment for."  
  
"Your client's been informed of his right's, Monsieur Salvant." Alys says simply, without looking away from Tony. The tone of kind-but-stern school marm works for her. Sliding the chair beneath her, she speaks to Tony as if the counseler isn't there.  
  
Eyes flicking to the chipmunk teeth she repeats, "Cute," as she had to describe the girlfriend Stefanie, this time about his expression. Behind the glass, Vitto mutters into his coffee cup 'lucky to get even that,' after a quick 'oh ho' to himself.  
  
Smart remarks? Yeah, well, she could work with those. She flicks the file open, and pushes the two photographs across the table, one by one of each victim. With the kind-stern look unmoved, she asks, "You recognize these men, Tony?"  
  
"You tell him, Detective," he encouraged the tone, smiling smugly at Orestes before turning back. Honestly, Tony didn't want him here but he couldn't exactly kick him out. Well, he could, but he didn't exactly know many lawyers of his own. Well, except Leo, but he was one of the prosecutors. Oi vey, that could be problematic.  
  
Tony leans forward to look at the photographs better, internally laughing at the irony. Olivier and Alys must have gone to the same school of intimidation and interrogation. Except, well, obviously not. But the file with the pictures, all in less than 24 hours, Tony was fighting giggles.  
  
"A bit, this one," Tony points at the first photograph, "Looks like Danny Devitto's second cousin, and this one," he points again, "Looks like a Black Elvis Presley."  
  
Cute again, she thinks, though she has a bone to pick with him on 'smart.' Alys lifts her gaze from the 'black Elvis' to hold Tony's and - as there'd been no interruption from the legal defense - firmly places the next photo on top.  
  
"And the two men in this one?" She asks, rapping a sharp maroon nail on Tony's face in the image, his mouth attached to the neck of Roussel in the shot.  
  
"You have a smart title for yourself, I assume?"  
  
She doesn't blink, but her smile quirks up.  
  
Wow, well that was a very unflattering shot of him. So that's what they had, a picture. Damn. And of course they'd already made copies of it so setting it on fire with his mind was only going to make him look even worse. Tony pursed his lips together, tried not to lick them as he revisited the day. This was not good. But they had to have more.  
  
"A couple," he admitted, nodding before he smirked, "Spawn of Satan is one." He shrugged and then looked back down at the picture and spoke again. "Yeah, it looks like me, but that's not exactly hardcore evidence. No way a judge issues a warrant based on a picture."  
  
Spawn of Satan--he'd heard? Alys purses her lips precisely as he'd pursed them when he saw the photo, but otherwise doesn't let on to the spike in her heartbeat. D'Grey should play poker, with that face. The only reason she noticed was because she'd looked at his lips: half vampire, she recalls with wariness. It was likely the taste stayed with him in memory. Yet all he did was purse. He didn't blink.  
  
And apparently he could hear through walls too. Well, thank heavens Alys didn't tend to speak her mind. 'Yes it looks like me,' she thinks. Whatever rebellion he'd given Daddy, he was still trained.  
  
"Why don't you let me worry about that, Tony." She still hasn't blinked, and raps the photo again. "And in the mean time, you can tell me what you were doing the evening of December seventh, 2027."  
  
"And I'll let my friend here," he gestured to Orestes' stony silence, "worry about that too." After all, he was the professional, Tony just watched a lot of Law and Order. But then again, who didn't? That shit was addicting. If he found himself a marathon, no one was moving him away from his couch.  
  
He bit his lip and then leaned back as he tried to recollect, "What day was that? Was that a Wednesday, Thursday? Two weeks ago? I can't even remember what I wore two days ago. It was probably ridiculously expensive though, like this leech next to me."  
  
Orestes wasn't fun to play with because he didn't react to Tonio's antics. It really was a shame.  
  
"Tuesday." Alys answered briskly, "And we've already checked with your drawing class that night and know you missed it."  
  
The latter she says as if it was completely business as usual, but with a wry smirk, as she can see he's irritated with his lawyer's lack of reaction. Interesting. It looks as if (though she wouldn't go on looks alone) the 'don't send the usual, lawyer' wasn't code at all. So while she was joking, she tilts her head, fingers curling back to reveal the rest of the photo to him as well and continues.  
  
"I understand the teacher had to stand in for modelling. You left a lot of heartbroken girls for skipping, you know." Her lips flick. "And you know what they say about a woman scorned."  
  
She taps the table, and pushes the photo across to him as he'd leaned back.  
  
"Tuesday, December seventh. I can help jog your memory. You were at an establishment known as the Hideout at ten thirteen in the evening, purchased a glass of bourbon -- did you like the Rollins Creek, by the way? I tried it myself, I do like an aggressive liquor, and the notes of apricot and citrus in such a smoky blend was...well, I don't want to color your review with my own opinion first."  
  
Alys smiles at him, waiting.  
  
His smirk widened and he tilted his head as she mentioned a drawing class. His amusement only grew as she said that he was a model for the class, not an actual student and it took him all his strength not to laugh. Actually, that wasn't half bad a suggestion, maybe he should think about doing that once he got out of here. Well, if he got out of here. He was temporarily contemplating pleading absolutely guilty but you shouldn't angry-shop, so he supposed the same reasoning applied here.  
  
"I know. Salvant's wife being one of them," he wiggled his eyebrows and then turned to Salvant who had an uptick in his heartrate at that mention. Ooh, touchy, touchy. Tony found where it hurt, now he knew where to keep pressing.  
  
His eyebrows lifted, impressed and appreciative before he licked his lips, "I do love women who know their way around bourbon."  
  
"If there's a point you're trying to get to, Detective Dale, make it."  
  
"See, my friend Orestes here is all about the end result, Detective. He just wants to...hammer it on home. No doubt why his wife turned to me," he laid his head on his free hand as he looked at the lawyer exclusively. "How is Penelope?"  
  
Now Tony licks his lips freely, but Alys only notes she has to look away from his mouth as he wasn't looking at the photograph, and it wasn't relevant. She can hear Vitto think-at-her from here wondering what she was doing, but she couldn't see anything but upsides if Tony was honestly this at-odds with his lawyer. Of course on the other hand, she figures easily Tony is not the one paying this check.     
  
She would see he pay for the spent balance against Society (so to speak) on the table, the photo he still wasn't looking at. Her smile is unmoved.    
  
"What I'm getting at Tony," she still speaks to him, "is the fact we have receipts and a bartender placing you at the scene of the murder and you have no alibi, nor give us any explanation. But see, I wasn't going to be as blunt as Monsieur Salvant here, so if you would prefer to speak to me alone, I can certainly arrange that."  
  
"Don't have to give an explanation. You do," he shrugs, "at my preliminary hearing, after my arraignment, you have to convince a judge that there's actually a case here- well not you, the prosecutor, and my buddy here is going to do his damnedest to convince the judge to throw this out entirely. So really, I just have to sit back," he did, and started twiddling his fingers on the table, "and let the professionals work it out.  
  
Besides, we really wouldn't be alone Detective, now would we?" He raised his eyes to the one way mirror across from him and then waved at her cop buddy on the other side before dropping his hand on the table again. "I'm always up for a little exhibitionism though, it's why I signed up as a model for that class."  
  
The quick rundown of their playbook reaffirms her belief. Rebel or not (and Tony gave the impression Dorat had been serious), he knew the law (and it's loopholes): was trained with it. And the cockiness? Oh, she might enjoy a little banter back and forth (improvisation, you might say, as he continued to referencing being a model even now), but it didn't escape her Tony wasn't taking this seriously.  
  
And why would he? His big brother obviously was always there to bail him out. Gritting down on her back teeth, she sits back in the chair as he does and says easily, "If you want to play it that way, you certainly make my life easier." She pulls the photos back, one-two-three, placing them back in the file and hitting the crease of it against the table. Thwack.  
  
"See, I have the explanation: I already know what happened. You and your buddies here were at the Hideout, got a few drinks. Then one of them started goading you, we have a witness to that. You got into an argument, maybe one of them was getting pretty violent, maybe you were--words were thrown first, then fists," her voice was rising, "and then you," her file hit the table, "killed both of them with your bare hands.  
  
"And teeth." That was an afterthought, pressing her lips together as she stared, unblinking at Tony's dark blue eyes. "So I'd be thinking, long and hard, Monsieur D'Grey, how it is you might be able to help yourself because I can tell you right now, no fancy-dressed 'leech' is going to be enough to stop you from going to prison. Him," she points with the file at his counseler, "or your brother either."  
  
The file falls back to the table, as she looks to Tony. Her smile returns with ease.  
  
"Wrong," he enunciated the word and let it stand on its own. Let her wonder what he was claiming was wrong: it could be the whole thing (though it wasn't) it could be about a tiny detail (there were several details run about that), but no matter her questions to elaborate he wouldn't. Not aloud anyways, for which Salvant here seemed very relieved for.  
  
The guy didn't goad him, he didn't start it at least. Tony had been picking at him and picking at him in the subtlest of ways, with a smile on his face the entire time. Bruce hadn't been one for subtle though. And Alain didn't back down. When blood was drawn, that was it. Tony snapped. But yeah, bare hands that was accurate. His blunt teeth didn't do much to kill though, not technically.  
  
He could argue bare hands right now, because how could anyone possibly rip apart a pair of men with their bare hands? But he knew very well that particular detail hadn't been made known to the public.  
  
She obviously knew what he was, or at least she had an idea. Tony considered letting his gaze oh so subtly fall to her neck and land on the vein there but be restrained himself. She was right, he was a murderer, and she was only doing her job, and with a great deal of pleasure.  
  
"I'm glad Paris has a woman like you, Detective Dale," he spoke with a quick chuckle, licking his lips with no amount of insincerity. (Tony lived for double negatives.) And he still meant it, even when she called his brother a leech indirectly. That statement was too accurate to be anything but scary, actually, so he didn't laugh.  
  
"If that's how it turns out to be, then so be it. Let justice run its course. You know," he leaned forward on his elbows after pointing at her, "that used to be my major. Criminal justice, did a year of it at UPenn," he sighed, "didn't cut it, so I transferred to NYU. Oh sorry, those are in the States. But yeah, point is I'm not an idiot here Detective Dale. I know my chances. Now I know the arguments that are gonna be used against me, a good portion of it anyway. And if I can come up with a defense, then so can Saliva here.  
  
It's not that I'm a cocky jackass, detective, at least that isn't the only reason I'm not sweating it," externally at least.  
  
"Que sera, sera," he smirks, thinking he was requoting himself too often. Time for new material.  
  
Wrong, ha, sure. Well, she actually wasn't sure of the intent in the murder--and that was the issue. That was what stood between a life sentence and fifteen to twenty, or even five to ten. Did he mean to, or was he, as the hunter who gave her those cuffs swore was possible, "blood-o-holic"?  
  
Alys keeps still as Tony shrugs at her, and only stiffens at the chuckle and compliment that was his immediate response to her sincere attack. It was clear his own face tightens at the brief mention of his brother (at least he stopped laughing), but otherwise Tony was unruffled. It's unnerving even if expected. Alys had looked in the eyes of cold-blooded killers before, passionate and psychopathic alike, but the man she spoke with now for all his nonchalance speaks perfectly...sane.  
  
Well, at least she could be certain not to hear an insanity plea.  
  
"Criminal justice?" She asks, her own arms folded tight over the folder, grin apparant, otherwise unflustered, "I bet that made Daddy proud."  
  
It wasn't to say his gaze wasn't unnerving. As shivers war over her spine, she doesn't bother hiding the surprise in her cocking eyebrow at his past major. Though, then she hears something click internally as her chin and pursed lips raise with understanding.  
  
"Que sera sera," she quotes. "Now you don't strike me as a big believer in fate, Antonio. You like to be -- in charge of your own destiny, don't you?" There's a captive sigh in her throat as she nods once, still smiling, "You want to be brought to justice, don't you." That wasn't a question. "I mean, it's striking alone you'd call it that. Justice. You know you did something wrong."  
  
There was another thought that takes her: he might want to be stopped. But frankly, understanding him was only a tool, if it meant she could get a confession. It doesn't matter to her if he goes to prison because he's trying to protect society or he was screwing his old man so long as he went, Alys would sleep at night. So she stands up, picking up the file, save the photograph of them in the alley, and gestures at it.  
  
"But all right, Tony-- you can keep that.  We have plenty. The bail hearing will be set within the week, then we can speak again. And then I suppose que sera sera."  
  
She stops near the door, holding on to the file, pointing at him, eyes turning to steel as she looks at him while she adds.  
  
"When your brother comes? You tell him that a hair on my head is harmed and all of this evidence is sent straight to the chief. And if he goes sniffing around the department for my witnesses, tell him I have no trouble putting a bullet in his brain. Think you can tell him that for me?" The words form an addendum as if she was saying, you do that for me and -- "I'll be sure to let Stef in here after me."  
  
A bittersweet smirk on her lips appears and she doesn't move. Besides, she was still waiting for an answer of some kind that he wanted to be in prison.  
  
"Yep, every day," he beams as he swallows the bile that only the mention of Remington could put in his throat. Thankfully, snakes didn't get poisoned by their own venom. He ignored the fact that he was calling himself a snake in this scenario, especially because he was positive that it was an accurate description. Did he have in himself enough malice to be a snake? It could prove to be a more challenging question than answering 'how many licks does it take to get to the center of the tootsie pop'.  
  
Man, now that was one of the most ingenious ploys of advertising in the world. But, he digressed.  
  
"Of course, I'd prefer to, but in this case, it really isn't. It's in the wrinkled hands of my lawyer, and if it gets to trial, in the hands of a jury." He wasn't relying so much on fate here, as much as the justice system. And given that Olivier boasted on owning at least half of it, Tony really wanted to see how this would turn out.  
  
(Why didn't his brother see that he could own the -entire- justice system without having to spend a single penny of his own money if he only ran for office?)  
  
"I'm not going to be allowed any personal items when they book me in jail, Detective," he picked up the picture she had left and then folded it and slid it into Orestes' breast pocket. "Think of me fondly, eh, Orestes?" He smirked and then turned back to Alys with a grin, "but thanks, it's the thought that counts. And the words, those too, of which she had many to give.  
  
His eyes fought to narrow, especially at the bullet in his brain comment, but somehow he managed to hold himself back from a death threat of his own. That was due to the fact that half of him thought her threatening was a real turn-on, maybe a little less than half.  
  
"Detective, very few important events in my life have ever been my own, and this is no exception." Examples you say? He had a ton of them! Kidnapped and tortured for days: to blackmail Olivier into compliance; killed Remington: to save Olivier; poisoned when he was 14: to try and get to Remington, and hell they even got the wrong brother; brought to France by Remington: to spite and wound his mother, and to appease Olivier. The list went on.  
  
"If I get convicted, you and the department win. If I get acquitted, my brother wins. The political and social implications of both, I definitely don't need to get into because I'm sure you can imagine it. Either way, this murder case boils down to something much bigger than that. Much bigger than me. Sure, I'll believe your primary goal here is to convict me and send me to prison, but you wouldn't have gotten here without the big D'Grey name splattered over the case." Plus, her big balls to carry it through, and the humongous balls of the judge who gave her the warrant. Which brought him to his next point.  
  
"You're a tough woman, Detective. You fight your own battles. You know exactly what you're getting into. So tell him that yourself, because Roman God I might be, but Mercury isn't it." That would have a been a lot more awesome if he was Greek and could have just used the more known name for Mercury, Hermes, to make his point. Messenger of the Gods, pah, like hell. No, instead, he was just the chess game.  
  
"And yes please if you would be so kind, given that my request for coffee was so rudely unacknowledged. No further questions, Detective?"


	3. Who Will Entertain You?

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> (because obviously you can be replaced that easily)

Well, he did have one thing right: the fancy name D'Grey stamped on the file made any social and political implications of this case was going to make everything ten times worse, more complicated, and dangerous. She disagreed on one thing though, and shrugs a shoulder at him, gesturing with the file, "Interesting you wouldn't list yourself winning either way when you just admitted you want justice served."  
  
Her words were quiet; her heart struggles to skip a beat but she doesn't otherwise respond to his sob story, slash...well, heart-wrenching confession. All it did was increase her curiosity. She wasn't going to rest tonight; she was going to go over every inch of the case files that existed on the D'Grey cartel of the last five years.  
  
Alys folds the file back under her shoulder, nodding before she says, now brisk, "Oh I have every intention on telling him that myself, Mercury, but something tells me he's more likely to listen to you. And you know what they say about how often a woman has to repeat herself before the man actually listens," she wrenches the door open with a smirk in place before she adds, "and trust me. If you were a little more cooperative, I'd be the first in line to give you a cup of espresso."  
  
As it was, she just shut the door behind her, grits her teeth and looks across the precinct to where she predictably saw D'Grey--now in a Valentino suit--and the girl, Stef. The latter was wearing the dress Tony's given her and --  
  
"Oh, you have to be kidding me."  
She dropped the file on her desk watching, arm sandwhiching the leather at her side. Clearly, Stef was charming her way by the bailiff. Ignoring Vitto's 'mmm-mmm-mmm' head shake, she continues across the way and cuts the man off.  
  
"Stefanie?" The detective spoke brisk, sidelong glancing the guard, saying simply, "Antonio is being booked. If you wait patiently in there," she points to the visitors reception, "I'll escort you both," she side eyes D'Grey, "there myself."  
  
The smile the girl gives her back makes her think she was about to be eaten. She must have vampire on the brain...and she needed coffee. A lot of coffee.  
  
"Actually," D'Grey answers her smoothly, almost looking apologetic(! the nerve--), "Karen was nice enough to offer to let us wait in her office."  
  
He seriously just called her chief 'Karen.' Oivey. But Tony was right. Alys did know what she was getting in to. Feigned smile as convincing as Stefanie's, she continues aloud,  
  
"My mistake. Marquis can escort you straight there then-although, Stef. I understand it your boyfriend is ready to kill," she looks sideways to his older brother, "if he doesn't get a cup of coffee. As a sign of good faith," Alys points to the machine, "you can take it to him as he transfers. I'm sorry, by the way, I don't--"  
  
"Know her name?" Vitto beat her to finishing with a clucked repetition of her name under his breath. Alys-Alys-Alys. Wonderful.  
  
"You'll have to excuse her, Mademoiselle Ricard. High fashion is-"  
  
"His, area of expertise." Alys cut in.  
  
"Hey, guilty as charged," Vitto held up his hands in surrender before realizing that was a bit in poor taste. Judging by the look D'Grey gave him, in any case.  
  
"I'd say," Stefanie answers sweet, "forgiveness is yet a ways off considering the rude interruption to our evening, but yes, I'll go with you now."  
  
Yet, why wasn't she surprised the girl was a model? It explained Marquis' expression. She turns back to D'Grey, who was clearly very involved in listening to something. How far could the two of them actually hear?  
  
Vitto smirks. "I'll take you."  
  
"And I'll escort you to our chief's office, Monsieur D'Grey." Alys finishes, as the hell-in-high heels walk off with Adonis over here. She flips her hair back to look at him, eyes steely as his, though they appeared both to have small smirks on.  
  
"I have a message for you, anyway." She says, firm, plainly unafraid of being alone with the man. D'Grey's tight smile only widens before he gestures 'after you,' and yet she feels another skipped heartbeat echo in her mind, not unlike the sound of a bullet.  
  
"Well a chess board doesn't win or lose, it's played," he offered, a bit proud of himself for the explanation. It certainly beat him outright saying that he had learned long ago he never really won, not in this lifetime. He didn't want sympathy after all, he detested it most of the time. Some good, old-fashioned righteousness was enough to make him content right now.  
  
Didn't he just say he wasn't Mercury? He think he preferred Spawn of Satan. Whatever, he let it pass after a brief roll of his eyes. Yeah, because Olivier was the king of listening, sure. And Tony was a celibate saint.  
  
But he didn't like espresso. He liked cafe au lait, but before he could say that Alys was moving out of the room and his lawyer was turning to look at him with no amount of amusement in his expression. Oh great.  
  
"You're a fool, Antonio."  
  
"Oh, bite the sausage with relish, Orestes," Tony rolled his eyes and then set his head on the table, resting it on his arms and then strained his ears to make sure they were alone. In the room adjoining this one he could hear no other heartbeats and no breathing.  
  
"I didn't say anything incriminating and you know it," he huffed out as Orestes began standing. "This isn't my first rodeo, cowboy. Beats you sitting there, saying nothing at all, letting her ignore you."  
  
"She's not a lawyer, and you're already arrested. This is not where I'm going to fight." Tony chuckled and then turned his head sideways so he didn't have to keep looking at his ugly face anymore.  
  
"Your arraignment's going to be in no more than 72 hours."  
  
"She said a week."  
  
"Like I said, she's not a lawyer." He pushed the metal chair in and then walked out of the room, going off to do whatever lawyers did best which was...feed on unsuspecting baby seals. Get it? Because they were sharks? He played the drum roll on the table and sounded out the high hat with his mouth.  
  
Great, some time alone. He closed his eyes and thought about what he was going to do here. They wanted to take him to jail for this, and they should because he honestly he didn't want to go, but what they had was an eyewitness and a picture to put him on the scene. As a normal human here which is what would be told to the jury (because this case was highly likely moving to trial), how could he rip bodies apart with his bare hands? Had the witness seen that too? Seen Tony rip Alain's arm off and let the blood gush into his mouth like an open hydrant?  
  
A shiver ran down Tony's back and he quickly left the image behind. And unless the witness had seen him actually doing the killing, he can argue the fact that he was just...munching on blood? Yeah right. Though he did. His fingerprints weren't on the scene though, that much he knew, that much he took care of himself before coming home. He should have just disappeared the bodies entirely, but Tony wanted them found so their families could know they were dead and didn't have to keep looking for them (a gut reaction brought on by him not being able to tell Emily's family about her own death until so long later).  
  
He'd been out of it, he was surprised he had enough sense to wipe any DNA after. Tony had gone straight home and had a shower and gotten drunk all over again on liquor instead.  
  
But if this detective really had an idea of what he was, why was she risking putting him with other inmates? Tony knew that Claude and certain hunters had hush-hush contracts with certain officers to 'deal' with these situations. Vampires, monsters, those that could make a meal out of all the inmates and the wardens too.  
  
And oh God, life as a D'Grey in prison. At least he didn't have to deal with the Death Eaters they had arrested here, the French Aurors took custody over them, but there were still a few muggle criminals that weren't going to be too happy to see him. Tony had seen the movies, he'd seen the prison shows. He was gonna have to become head honcho to survive, or let himself get pushed around by the likes of men with ironic names like Tiny, and a male Shirley. Or not, who knows? He would, soon enough.  
  
He lifted his head as he smelled it: cafe au lait. Accompanied with a scent of coconuts and pool water. Stef was here.  
  
Stefanie was only half listening to the praise for her perfume ad coming from her escort (his sister had loved the product see, that was assured to her with vehemence, but he preferred the ad). Part of her was contemplating a jail-break ala impromptu feast.  
  
Vitto wasn't actually his name she realized easily -- she was amused by the Italian-slash-Spanish (she's not sure which) name on his badge, 'Vittorio' (because of course it would sound Italian, irony loves Stefanie as much as her escort loves her strutting in white, lacy, lingerie to sell perfume). Whatever his nationality, his blood was racing in a way that drowns his words; she hides a lip lick behind the cup she was making for Tony. Actually, did nationality change the flavor? Best argument she heard for the jailbreak yet; she and Tony could travel around the world finding out together!  
  
Ha. You could tell she was wired. Tony's blood tends to give her that...extra oomph a bag just didn't hold a candle to. Considering how easy it had been to stop earlier (admitted, Tony was being distracting), she thinks: maybe she could give the hospital bags up sooner than later. Didn't the hospital need that blood to save lives?  
  
Another reason for the jailbreak: thus far, Tony was the only person she could drink from consentually. Though okay yes, that's a selfish reason. She doesn't want him with her, see, she -needs- him. (How that was better, Stefanie couldn't tell you, she just knew it was).  
  
"Five minutes, all right? We need to get your boyfriend to central booking."  
  
"Vitto," she stops him, hand going to his chest as she says easily, looking deep into his eyes, "Tony isn't my boyfriend."  
  
And just like that she's certain she gave them a whole eight minutes alone instead. Or...well, mostly alone, you know, except the cameras, the precinct, and Vitto just a dozen feet away, but she took what she'd get. Making sure to walk as if on a catwalk when she enters even if she has to leave the door open, she sits down on the table beside where Tony's hands were cuffed to it. Heels crossed, she places the mug next to the silver cuffs, her other hand brushing just once through his raven locks.  
  
She leans back, teasing gently. "I wouldn't threaten to kill for coffee, Snow, it only makes you look guiltier."  
  
"Who said I was threatening?" Tony frowned, genuinely bothered even if it only lasted for a second. That's the things about comedians, you know, they couldn't take a joke. Or maybe that was just him. Still, he hadn't threatened anyone. In fact, quite the opposite! He didn't threaten to put a bullet in Alys' brain. It was such a pretty face though, it really shouldn't be shot.  
  
Well that and the fact that she was an innocent woman who was only doing her job and what was right. That didn't deserve a bullet in the brain.  
  
He took the cup with his free hand and then sipped from it. Heaven. Well, right now that's how it felt.  
  
He smiled at Stefanie, the smile turning into a devilish grin as he took in her appearance with a lot of gusto. "I've been on my best behavior, just ask your admirer later," he gestured with a cock of his head to the door and then placed the coffee cup down to fiddle with the hem of Stef's dress.  
  
"You wore it," his fingers drummed on her thigh under her dress, perfectly innocent, at the very least innocent enough. He tilted his head. "Did you wear the thong too?"  
  
She chuckles, nodding once off-hand at the predictable smirk that graced his (slow) gaze up her. Somehow, she has no trouble believing he actually -was- on his best behavior. Yet she was equally sure she understands Alys' virulent irritation. Contrary to the core, they both were (and weren't, not really, just embodiments of hypocrisy that is equally a moment of Zen peace).  
  
"You mean the detective was exaggerating the circumstances?" She asks, breathy on purpose as her hand lays on her chest. Parodying 'why I never' was too much fun to ignore; Stefanie was a born starlet.  
  
She looks to his neck, noting with some pride the marks she'd made and healed were invisible even if the skin was pink. Then her eyes shoot to the hemline where his thumb plays, and all breath shoots out of her at once.    
  
"Yeah, course I wore it," she says, forcing breath behind the words. Her throat was scratchy again. "I wasn't going to wait around to change. That's why Daniella's not here. That, and she fell asleep on the parlour couch after smacking your brother for exhausting her." Okay, that time she might have exaggerated it. "But," Stef adds softer, "she sent her love and promise she's bringing you giant chocolate cookies tomorrow. If you weren't released."  
  
Stef has to fight not to bite her tongue.  
  
"...what do they have?" She asks, now in a bare whisper.  
  
"I know! Shocking, isn't it?" He gasped along with her and would have put his hand to his mouth to help with the act except that would require him to dislodge it from her thigh and Tony was a man of healthy priorities.  
  
Yeah, he was having troubles not snorting with laughter at that remark too.  
  
"If she really loved me she would have come in that robe," he teased, shaking his head and then sniffs. "So tell her she must not love me then." And at least someone got to smack his brother. Tony really should decrease the hostility towards him a little bit, especially since he was 'taking care of it' but nope, he didn't feel like it.  
  
"Oh, I'm not getting released," he takes a drink of his coffee again, returns the hand right back where it was before continuing, "they've got a picture of a very handsome devil nibbling on a neck, a receipt that puts me at the scene at the time of death, and a protected eyewitness." And she was either offered some really big bucks or must have been scared shitless to agree to testify.  
  
His hand slipped up a few inches to snap the waistband of her thong and then smirked, "You're right, there it is."  
  
"Oh no, suesser, you can tell her -that- yourself tomorrow," she says immediately, her lips flicking up. Deliver a message like that to Daniella Faye? Was he insane? (Maybe don't open that can of worms). ...And pay no attention to the fact she was a vampire and you know, supposed to be able to take her.  
  
Then-- snap! Anything else she was going to say was cut off with his fingers darting up her skirt (predictable man).  
  
"Antonio." Her wrist darts down to steel around his. Smile sweet as sin, she bats her eyes at him once. "Don't start something you can't finish. I'll be cross."  
  
Obviously, her being cross was a worse punishment than the reason for his inability to finish. Incarceration and damning evidence aside. They were poor jokes, true but when that was all available, utilized was better than ignored.  
  
Stefanie was glad her heart wasn't beating though; she'd hate for him to overhear her wariness. Still otherwise as the grave (poor joke again), she slips her thumb from pulse point to palm, caressing in a soft circle.  
  
"How...on Earth could they have that?" She's glad she can speak without fear of being overheard, at least. Magic has it's use.  
  
"She'll be talking to me through a glass window and a little phone," he smirked without any mirth, "they're due to transfer me as quickly as possible. I think face to face visits have a certain day and time, but can't be too sure, depends on the prison."  
  
"But that's what I know how to do best," he joked, sticking his cheek out with his tongue before digressing. She couldn't blame him now could she?  Who knows when he'd be able to enjoy a woman again! Life in a cell, deprived of your rights, surrounded by criminals- no, that was the real punishment here.  
  
He tried to grab the cup of coffee with his cuffed hand and to lean forward an obscene amount to be able to continue drinking from his cup. But again, he had priorities.  
  
"Your guess is as good as mine," Tony shrugged, licking his lips to catch a stray drop of his coffee.  
  
"My guess is someone tracked her down and put the fear of God in her," he shrugged and then jingled the cuffs, "someone who knows who I am and gave Detective Dale a heads up. These are reinforced. Unfortunately I have my fair share of enemies lately, it doesn't exactly narrow it down."  
  
"Rein--," she exhales out, her free hand going to his cuff, startled by the idea. One tug tells her he was right (although she keeps her forefinger between the cuffs to insure they didn't rip further into his skin). It wasn't that she doesn't believe  him-but how could they be reinforced? Who would know to --  
  
"Hell."  
  
Oivey. Her hand slips free again, and she looks up at him. It frightened her to think one of those enemies would be going up against the D'Grey cartel as well. This wasn't something for a petty little grudge. Even she couldn't break those cuffs.  
  
"It's a her?" Is the first thing Stefanie asks, wondering why the detective would have said that, or if she was listening. Then she raises his hand on her thigh where she still hangs on to his wrist, even though she hasn't broken eye contact once.  
  
"You aren't thinking of confessing, are you?" She asks quietly, hand still moving. Later, Stefanie will wonder why she phrases it that way. If it was her, she'd be thinking that, honestly...but she doesn't want Tony to. He'd go to prison - like he said, she'd have to talk to him through a little window and video screen.  
  
"No by all means, check yourself," he spoke with dry tone, shaking his head but knew her reasoning behind wanting to try and break them off herself. Kind of how when people asked to 'look at something', they outstretched their hand because they needed it to be touching it. It gave things a certain degree of realness than just seeing couldn't achieve.  
  
"A waitress with a apparently a vampire fetish. A waitress with a vampire fetish who worked the late Tuesday shift- I really hope they have her well hidden, because actually that's a pretty solid amount of information to go on." He didn't want so much as a bribe to get near the woman, though if someone was really forcing her to come forward...there was no way she was in police custody. Where oh where has the little waitress gone? Oh where, oh where, could she be?  
  
"Thought about it," he admitted easily enough, looking at their hands briefly, adding in another dry remark, "the little witch would be ecstatic," he lifted his gaze back to Stefanie as he finished, "but I've got things to do. Can't hide away in a jail cell." Not yet at least.  
  
"They told you all that?" Stefanie's voice is going up in pitch, but she keeps the tone smooth as silk in case Vitto heard. Or the cameras. Or any of them there--her ear is swiveling in a flurry to detect eavesdroppers with quick pulses. Give her a reason to bite someone. Please. Oh, please.  
  
It still was shocking to her: the detective had either overplayed herself, or...Tony had used his extra senses to overhear, hold on, that made more sense. Either way, they needed to work on privacy (or the opposite, as she may not want the witness dead, but she wants Tony locked up less).  
  
His admittance makes her hand stall on her thigh as she flickers her eyes back to his and holds steady. Of course he did, because his name wasn't Tony D'Grey if he wasn't being conscientious and an irritating, moral, hypocritical and lovable pain in the ass. Turning their hands under her skirt, she exhales as she nods at him, slow.  
  
"Bene," she says without blinking. "All men may have to die but, there's a certain cruelty to imprisonment Tony. Especially as you did the right thing."  
  
Murder most foul it might have been but...she couldn't help but feel like Tony was being railroaded for his past, not held fairly accountable. She supposes it was because a muggle court--reinforced cuffs or not--could not possibly understand the complexities with magical gifts-slash-curses.  
  
"Yeah, which might be just a trap but you know me, I look dumb, people let their guard down, it's always been an advantage." Unfortunately, no longer. The thing about creating a reputation for himself as that Death Eater, even for a couple of weeks, is that there were fewpeople who didn't know what he was capable of anymore. He wouldn't be underestimated and therefore, people who were gonna try to take him down were gonna give it their all. Was it too late to continue to lay low? By a long shot, definitely.  
  
He moved so that he could lace her fingers with his and brush his knuckles against smooth skin as she stopped. Beside them, his cafe au lait was getting cold so he mumbled a quick spell to warm it up again before taking his cuffed hand and performing his stretch to reach it and take another sip.  
  
"The right thing, Stef? Did you hit your head that hard during our passionate love making?" He smirked and clenched his jaw briefly. No, he didn't do right. He couldn't even say that it was what Gustav wanted. He was just supposed to work them over, beat them up a little, not rip them apart.  
  
"So who you going to entertain yourself with while I'm gone, cherie? I'll be making plenty of admirers myself, I'm sure."  
  
"The last thing you look is dumb." Sure, saying so contradicts her ability to say 'you know nothing', but the problem tonight was he actually knew...quite a deal. Not only on his own crimes, but hers, her brothers, and of course -- el capo, otherwise known as his fratello. His -big- brother on top of that.  
  
Perhaps that was why she felt he was being unfairly persecuted; Olivier was in the captain's office as they spoke in hushed, hurried tones now, taking care of things. The battle about to be fought was between public reputations, his brother, lawyers, politicians looking to score, reporters -- likely as not a hundred other things before Tony entered into it, and yet it was his liberty at stake.  
  
"Oui," she squeezes his fingers as they lace through hers, and breathes out in sudden vehemence, "the right thing. What they seem to be ignoring is six days later those two would have been trying to kill Miss Detective here in Notre Dame."  
  
Oh, but why should that matter? Stefanie was looking into Detective Alys Dale. One smudge would wipe off the smirk, and oh she'd relish that.  
  
Stef pauses -- (love-making, he says, never fucking) -- and narrows her eyes.  
  
"Oh yes, Tony, because you're just so easily replaced for me." It was irritation fueled, yes...but flatly sarcastic as her eyes stay fierce on his. "I'd say you should feel free to indulge in would-be admirers. I'm sure they're a delicacy."  
  
"Murder is murder, Stef. She's just doing her job, so don't think about eating her." Not without him there at least to share- I mean, what? No, of course not. Right, this was not a good train of thought to be in at the moment. He hadn't even considered yet that he was going to be without his other life source for who knows how long.  
  
He snorted once at her remark, smirking and then bit inside his own cheek to keep a comment at bay. Not a good idea to depart in bad terms. He could potentially go back to being angry with her when he got out, if he got out.  
  
"The only thing I would be indulging in would be aids and other sexually transmitted diseases. So unless one of the inmates is smoking hot out of this world oozing with knee-shaking toe-curling appeal, I'm going to pass."  
  
Murder is murder, she doesn't think that has ever sounded more of a cop out oversimplification to her than now. Especially as it was in the same sentence referring to her eating the detective! "Oh--seven hells, Tony, don't give me that. Murder is not the same across the board. It's an act of passion or antipathy. It's horrific or it's medicinal when given in amnesty, or as euthanasia. You kill one person whose about to blow a bridge up, you murdered one, saved a hundred. Sometimes it's senseless, sometimes it makes a great deal of sick, twisted sense. Soldiers take lives, martyrs take their own -- terrorists murder, suicide bombers take thousands. It's merciless or merciful, an act of logic, faith, rage, love, hunger, greed -- but what it never is, is just another ordinary act after Sunday brunch. Because even where it is that repeated, in Africa, in the middle east, in the household you grew up in? The affect on the human psyche is astronomical. So no. Murder is not murder, okay what it is -- is painful. It is damaging. Final. It is even, dare I say, right, or wrong, or -both- at the same time. And perpetrator and victim are not mutually exclusive states to be in."  
  
Stefanie pauses, not sure where that came from, but she slips their tangled hands out so she can raise his hand to kiss his hand. Hard.  
  
And then she can't help but point out, prim and playfully, free hand tracing her bottom lip with her thumb, "Mm....too late, I thought about it already. It's a shame it'll have to remain a fantasy."  
  
Her thumb pops out from behind her lips, before she stares at it, thinking hard. She hadn't been able to give him her blood earlier in the hot tub --he'd been preoccupied by the skinny dip, but now she has to admit she wants to. Heal him properly, for one thing, and she could at least be sure he wouldn't be starving for it about to enter a jail cell where blood was probably soaked into the walls and mats.  
  
The smirk on his lips tightens her own glare at him, but her eyes were intense from affection. He was right. After the briefest look to a restless Vitto (he was signalling across the way, likely to the booking agents), she makes her mind up.  
  
"Yeah, yeah--speaking of indulgence If I gave you a few drops," she whispers, thumb grazing teeth gradually sharpening and eyes on the cafe au lait, "would it help or make your cravings worse?"  
  
He blinked repeatedly, sitting back and listening to her speak. He smiles a bit fondly even if he wants to scoff and shake his head at it, he doesn't. She was inspired, and who was he to stop inspiration in its tracks? That didn't mean he thought the same way, especially not about him, but he didn't have to throw away her explanation and her belief.  
  
He cleared his throat, lifting his eyebrows once before he clarified, "I was talking legally, just by the way." And technically, all across the board, the end is the same. Death. But as much as he liked arguing with Stef in particular (it was just so easy) he wasn't going to. And the last bit of temptation to do so faded away when she kissed his hand.  
  
"Downright shame," he replied, playing along even if he was gladder that it would remain a fantasy. Who says all fantasies have to come true anyways? Then what would they lose themselves into?  
  
His eyes follow his thumb in her mouth and then the sharpening of her teeth into fangs. He was impressed with her control already, and the fact that she could be in this crowded place to begin with. Then again, she was recently fed, and she might have even had a bag or two before coming here to prepare.  
  
"Worse, I think. The taste will have me frenzied. Might bite off a head, then even Saliva won't be able to help me."  
  
Eyes narrow, ice blue, to pouty-primadonna slits at the aside he half coughs in there in the manner of 'let me just deadpan my way in for the last word pretending I'm not smirking in appreciation.' Stefanie barely restrains herself from sticking out her tongue.  
  
Okay scratch that, she did, she just let it stick hard into his wrist - jabbing as much as lingering near that delicious pulse point - and then drops his hand (on to her lap again), petulant. Fine, have it his way.  
  
Her teeth fade back to soft tips (she was proud, to see his awe, as frankly -- yes, she'd been working hard at that 'little' trick there).  
  
"Right." She says, and tries not to sound too...well. Disappointed. Dropping her hand again to his, she says slowly, "...who is Saliva? The one hitting on me?"  
  
Did there ever live a tease as teasing as this tease sitting on the table right in front of him, teasing her way like the little tease she teasing was? Alright, he thinks he was making his point.  
  
And was it just him or did she seem disappointed as she dropped his hand back on her clothed lap as he rejected her shot of blood to be put in his coffee? Oh, Stef. He chuckled and finished the rest of his coffee so that he wouldn't have to move his hand away until they came for him.  
  
"No," he rolled his eyes. "Salvant," he corrected himself, "is my stick in the mud lawyer who apparently is having marital problems. Nevertheless, he's the best of the best in that silent but deadly way. Not one of these cocky, loudmouthed lawyers. Shame, I'd have more witty repartee with the latter. This one is barely affected by me, Olivier knows I hate him. Prick."  
  
Hearing the - ahem - response in his chest (and other places) makes her smirk, comforted by his appreciation as much as she honestly wants to get him to believe somehow that he didn't have to punish himself endlessly. Briefly considering that maybe some time in jail (meaning, this week) could let him feel he was paying his debt to society--that he could maybe move on--she drops both of her hands to his free one, scooting closer so the one he has chained to the wood could rest on her knee instead.  
  
Cocking an eyebrow (and popping her heel) she swallows a giggle at the nickname before realizing exactly why Olivier would have chosen him. Tony's wishes wouldn't matter to the lawyer, ergo, he'd continue trying to fight for the best deal even over Tony's moral objections. Olivier might as well have duct taped his brother's mouth.  
  
(Let's not give him ideas though).  
  
"Yes, well for the uh--record, Tony, that Prick has been with the captain of the police the last ten minutes at least, arguing you've been framed, and for a single cell to protect you. Until he gets you out, is the unspoken addendum obviously." She squeezes Tony's wrist. "I know you two are in a fight right now, but maybe...acknowledge that he's fighting to keep you safe, and at home."  
  
"Hmm, much better," he murmured appreciatively and gratefully when he didn't have to rest his poor left hand on a hard and cold surface. Granted, Stef wasn't exactly the warmest anymore but her hotness projected outward, and she might be sturdier than iron or steel now, but that didn't mean she wasn't soft to the touch. On the contrary, her skin had never been this smooth. Being a vampire didn't come without its perks.  
  
"Yeah, well maybe I'd feel a little less hostile if I didn't know he's got this whole internal diatribe about how he's always cleaning up my mess prepared for when he next sees me. Not that I'm entirely blameless here, obviously. I do let him." Let's not forget the fact that Tony had killed those two men, and if he hadn't, if he'd had an ounce of self control, they wouldn't be in this situation in the first place.  
  
They, ha. Well, when had Tony ever been selfish? Of course he wanted to share.  
  
"And okay, maybe this is an exception because where the fuck would I get a lawyer, but I'm not some damsel in distress, he doesn't need to keep swooping in to my rescue- do not" he raised a finger at Stef and then poked her stomach, "say a word. Anything resembling 'shoe's on the other foot', and I'll be the one who's cross."  
  
The knee he holds curls towards him as she thinks to herself with abash and pride -- see, she was warmer than he thought. Maybe the bashful-pride was a precursor to hope but that four letter word seems too big now. They were in a police holding cell. He was chained (reinforced) to a desk.  
  
Then he starts talking about his brother (her fault; she should know better than to get between siblings), and she just waits. Let's him poke her. And then chuckles, contrary to her own words. "I wouldn't joke about that, Cinderella, I'd just give you the other glass slipper."  
  
Still, she doesn't let him go.  
  
"I'd be...surprised if he's planning such a diatribe to give you when your home. If you ask me," he hadn't, but Stefanie doesn't care, "he's just glad for the chance to have your back."  
  
The pounding heart alerts her to company and she sighs abruptly, glad for the warning to--well, act a little more human. Turning to glance over her shoulder at Vitto, she says sweetly, "Five more minutes?"  
  
"Ah, sorry sweetheart," he looks awkward moving between a smirk when she's looking at him and a glare when it's Tony, "I have to take him down to booking now. Special handling cell, I guess."  
  
Stef cocks an eyebrow back at Tony that couldn't say more plainly, 'see?!' But she doesn't let his hands go yet, even as Vitto moves to unhook the table to put them back behind Tony's back. (She knows there'll be a second there he can grab her with both hands plainly.)  
  
As he tilted his head and pursed his lips at her, his expression plainly read 'uncool and unfunny' before just shaking his head to prevent from rolling his eyes. And he had almost made a comment about a slipper too, but see while others loved to beat Tony to his punchline, Tony wouldn't dream of doing the same in return. Unless it was Leo, because Leo wasn't allowed to be funny.  
  
"As long as you got my front," he joked, ready to leave the conversation behind. Yeah, Olivier had his back because he didn't think Tony could make it without some form of help from him. Well, he supposed now he had a chance to show he could take care of himself in prison. And if anybody offered him protection in prison, so help him God, he was breaking their wrists.  
  
But as he heard steps approaching he wished he could take it back. He'd be willing to tackle any uncomfortable conversation with Stefanie than have to go. Exhaling loudly, his lips vibrating together as he blows out, he turns to look at Vitto, offering a squinty-eyed smirk in response to the glare he got.  
  
Special holding cell? He could feel Stefanie's smug I-told-you-look from the corner of his eyes. Goody, so he didn't have to wait with the general population before they transferred his ass to La Sante, probably. Oh hell, whatever. Tony exhaled again when the cuff was taken off the table. As it moved backwards he brought it to his other hand on Stefanie's thigh to squeeze her hands tight (would have probably snapped the bones of any regular person in half), before Vitto was pulling on both his arms to get them behind his back.  
  
"Geesh handsome, haven't you heard of foreplay?" His arms finished moving backwards, his wrists cuffed again with a certain amount of dexterity even Tony could appreciate, and then he was standing again.  
  
"Arrividerci, cara," he winked after an inhale, "fino ad allora." Even 'see you later' sounded romantic in Italian, let's be real.  
  
'Yeah, of course she had his front' her eyes say for her as she slips off the table, following him. Heels echo on the marble floor, but she holds his hands as fast and as hard as she can. They probably broke half a dozen little bones for those three seconds, but Stef feels as if his skipping heart speaks for both of them. The same as it was his blood that flushes in her cheeks as he slips away from her.  
  
Vitto -seriously- was lucky she has no intention of munching on anyone in front of Tony. Except Tony himself but, details.  
  
"Yeah, you'll have to finish off yourself in solitary, bro." Vitto finishes the first remark, blissfully unaware the hungry look Stef gave his neck.  
  
Shivering up her spine with the romantic goodbye, she cocks a smile at him and a wink as he goes. But she is Stefanie Ricard, and she can't resist a few last words of her own for him.  
  
"You know, what I said before...about being replaceable, it was sarcastic, suesser."  
  
He might have continued the line of jokes he had prepared but Tony found himself with a sudden immeasurable anger for this man, even if he was doing nothing except escorting him where he should be. It probably stemmed from bottled-up anger that had no present target. Nevertheless, Tony pursed his lips to keep from really threatening, and it wasn't going to be over a damn cup of coffee. Damn, this latent anger was more present than he thought.  
  
He smirked as he started walking forward, listening to her words as he reached the door and looked at her over his shoulder for the second in which he was allowed to linger. He mouthed the words 'I know', but never gave them voice. Tony knew better than to deny a woman the last word.


	4. Thick Skin, Or Just Plain Crazy?

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> (a little of both, i imagine)

It wasn't often that she got fan mail. And by often she meant never, if the letter that she got from Ansel Dorat could even be classified as fan mail to begin with. It was half fan mail, half invitation. She was surprised to find it in her mail and then realized that wanted to meet that day. She never checked her mail, it all just got dropped on her table, muggle and wizard alike, as anybody that wanted to contact her called or emailed her.  
  
It was early Sunday afternoon by the time she got out of bed and went through her mail as she waited for her noodles to cook. An hour later she was heading out, noodles disregarded. Ansel was her older brother Darrell's friend when they were in school, and the coffee shop where he wanted to meet was one they hung out at after school, though her only so often whenever Darrell was 'saddled' with her. But as far as she knew, Ansel had disappeared years ago, no one had heard of him since.  
  
Reaching the outdoor coffee shop right by the pier that was on the Seine, she immediately got in line for a cup because now she was decaffeinated and cold. With her coat wrapped tied firmly at her waist, she took the coffee with a small 'merci' and headed towards the wooden railing to overlook the river as she waited. Honestly, if it would have been a casual reunion alone she would have declined (so tired, late night, coffee sip necessary), but the fact that he had included that he had insight on the events of Notre Dame made her interested enough to accept.  
  
Air taking his dark caramel looks, the look he gave was fond as it was calculating, leaning in luxury against the pier's railing. Look at her! Little Amalie. Oh it was lucky, fairly, that his senses were so keen, she never had grown since she was fifteen. Brushing the back of his hand off to fix his cuffs, he has to take a pause, struck by the fact that Darrell would have kicked his ass for thinking "well, except one obvious way." Then he chuckled because frankly, considering the firecracker had written what she had about the D'Grey cartel? Though nostalgic, there was a reason he reached out to her first. He'd need her to protect him when he did contact Darrell rather than the other way around.  
  
Whistling under his breath, he waits, listening to her heart rate. Impressive, Ansel thinks, she was steady as a rock. Admittedly, the cover story had him disappear a half-decade ago, and he'd never even told Darrell all of it. He wonders if she knew he was a wolf--but if she doesn't, she would soon enough.  
  
Moving now, he lifts his mug off the railing to take a sip and after a dart approaches the last fifteen feet casually. Overcast, the day was grey and white, with a soft film look filtered through low hanging clouds. Amalie looks like she belongs in a painting. Speaking after a sip, he hasn't ceased smiling.  
  
"Amalie Avenier-look, at you. You are putting me to shame."  
  
She turned her head sideways to hear her name, broken out of her wandering thoughts. Amalie found herself smiling in response to the smile that had greeted her. For some reason she had been expecting an Ansel that was in decidedly bad conditions. Insight on the matter was what he had written. How did you have an insight on Death Eaters without being one of them or working with them? And yet he looked...well, very well. Appearances do deceive, however, so caution was appropriate.  
  
"Ansel Dorat, charming as ever. I hardly recognized you without an entourage." An entourage that had included her brother a good amount of time. She remembered yelling at him for the lengths that association reached, actually. She had always had venom to her bite, but then again so had Darrell; that fight had been and still was their worse to this day.  
  
"A meeting outside in this cold though?" She took a sip of her coffee for warmth before letting the cup fall from her lips, and tilted her head so as to look around.  
  
"Thick skin or just plain crazy?"  
  
"A little of both, I imagine." Ansel couldn't help his joke to himself, spreading the button-down jacket at his waist like spreading wings as he rests. Her heart-rate and breath settled, he falls into an easy rhythm echoing it. The habit was forming, in the days since he'd drank that potion...nearly a month ago, he thinks absently. The wolf inside knew the day coming. He might not need a full moon any longer, but that didn't mean every nerve in his body didn't continue to thrum alive with anticipation.  
  
As his head tilts, he chuckles under his breath, "An entourage, though? More like I was the one following in others. Before, anyway."  
  
That would have to wait for another story, though. Lifting his mug, he takes a sip (scalding his throat; he relishes the burn), then nods.  
  
"It is good to see you." Ansel was being perfectly genuine. Then his pinky arches off the cup, pointing at her as he smirks, "Though if I might wager a guess, you're here more interested in the insight I mentioned, Miss Reporter."  
  
Well, she hadn't mentioned which position in the entourage, but she was only trying to be polite and sensitive. He might not want to be reminded of his teenage years, given that they weren't exactly all too bright and that was just from an outsider's point of view. Not to mention Colette's tragedy.  
  
"You too," she remarked with a smile, taking the opportunity to take a more proper look. She wondered if he had kept playing basketball and that was why he looked pretty fit. A question for another time, well, if there was another time to be had, it depended on what he had to offer.  
  
With a caught expression, she nods once to acknowledge was correct in his guess, and then grins. "Well I don't get out of bed on my Sundays for just a pretty face, Monsieur." She took another sip, her eyebrows rising over the coffee.  
  
"Make it worth my while?"  
  
Ansel's grin flops lopsided for a moment, as he can't help but point out, "Ah, that's a difference then. I would be remiss if I didn't admit I would have come for you regardless of the time."  
  
With another sip of his own coffee (the burn melts and heals in an instant or so, fascinating and addicting him, but then most things always had done that); he tilts his head and gestures out to the pier.  
  
"I have no doubt I can make it worthwhile, dah-ling, but it is the kind of story that will...take time in offering particulars. We can go wherever you're most comfortable. I would say it isn't for all ears but of course--that defeats the purpose of asking you to publish. I would like to remain anonymous myself, however." He puts his hand on his heart, not joking, even as he smirks. After letting a pause fall, he adds softer, still genuine, "How long have you known me, Amalie? I am - frankly - a tad ashamed how much there is to tell."  
  
Like she had said, still as charming as ever. She assumed it was why he and her brother got along; smooth talkers the pair of them. Being a bit of a smooth talker herself, she knew the charm only came on when you needed something from them, or knew you would eventually need something from them. There was also the case of being genuinely interest but when did that ever happen, out of ten times?  
  
"I had a feeling it might be like that," she nodded. This is why she had worn boots that she had long mastered. She preferred to walk and talk, less chance of someone overhearing and much more background noise. She was already pleased that he did want her to publish it. Then again, he wouldn't have contacted her if he didn't want that in the first place. She got his attention by the article on Notre Dame, he was either thinking that she was anti-D'Grey enough or crazy enough to publish whatever he had to say. Either way, she was anxious to hear.  
  
"I'll keep your confidentiality, of course," she nodded again and then moved to start walking, moving her hair out of her face. It was a good idea to move to otherwise she was going to be frozen in place.  
  
"For years," and mostly through Darrell, "though, years ago." That was the ticket. And so much could happen in a few years.  
  
"If you would have asked me what I thought happened to you a day ago I would have guessed you were dead." Or well on his way anyway.  
  
"How'd you get to know about the Death Eaters in Notre Dame?" She could guess that it hadn't been because of a best friend that required some help in mild use of blood magic to help put some of them in jail.  
  
Candid in a way only the Frenchman ever could manage when discussing the dreary, epic tragic backstory, Ansel confirms with a jerk of a nod, clasping hands behind his back.  
  
"I tried my damndest to accomplish that, actually." Ansel frees a hand, locks jade green eyes with her as he rubs over his lips. Though he turns his eyes to the pier as they walk, he's hiding a laugh. Being too--well, amused, with his own suicidal past wasn't going to keep her convinced of his sanity.  
  
(Well, there was another laugh Ansel swallows.)  
  
But Amalie was his best mate in school's kid sister--only now she was a reporter with the guts to take on the truth against a drug cartel better positioned every day to own the country. She was listening.  
  
"I was there. At Notre Dame." He nods, keeping eye contact with her. "As I said - it's a long story. But it starts there, oh, five, six, gracious is it seven? Years ago now. You remember Gabriel was in the hospital, when I left the first time?"  
  
Ansel has to pause to clear his throat, but only for that. It felt strange to speak his elder brother's name aloud. Maybe he should pay him a visit. Bring the pack along -- Hello, brother, had he become a doctor after all? (Did he still have the scars?) Look what I made of myself after all.  
  
"Truth is, I put him there. Accidentally," he adds the postscript posthaste, earnest in assurance more than genuity, "Amalie, see, he had followed me--oh, I shan't get into the exact specifics of our troubles, suffice to say it was a full moon, and the second transformation I had ever undergone after being bitten."  
  
He stops walking, eyes flashing grey as they pierce her wide gaze, but only in curiosity of what she might say. After all, he remembers the stories of Darrell's grandmother and what she was teaching them easily. Smirk light, he adds, "I ought to add; I asked to be bitten. Strung out and drunk and seventeen, but it was still my choice."  
  
Merde. Well, that was one way to start the road down memory lane. It set the tone for the disclosure, and it served to at least half prepare her for what she was bound to hear. And it seems like first she had to get the background before the actual explanation. That was fair, not only because it would help her understand how he got to be where he was, but because she was also personally curious and wanted to know.  
  
Amalie nodded once, remembering that time. It was particularly vivid to her as well because her mother had died not a month or so after. Needless to say, it wasn't a very happy time. She was brought of her thoughts again with a pull of his words, admitting to attacking his own brother (accidentally, that was an important detail, mustn't forget that detail) on his second full moon. It didn't take a genius to figure out what he meant. He was right though, he was crazy, asking for the bite. Why would he...condemn himself like that?  
  
"Well," she began after remembering to breathe and stop staring, "that's certainly an icebreaker." She exhales and brings the coffee to her lips and takes a longer sip than before.  
  
"Do you regret it?"  
  
The question takes Ansel by surprise, and even more startling is the strange thought he didn't mind that she had managed it. The truth was as meticulous as he was being, Ansel knew he never had the effortless knack at planning his counterparts did. Anticipation too often was just anxiety for him; he relaxed and found joy in spontantiety. Plus, it showed Amalie's shrewd instinct. It showed he was to think she had the guts to do this. (And it showed she knew him, but he probably shouldn't mention that).  
  
In fact, so delighted by the question was he, it took Ansel a moment to ponder it, preoccupied with the thought he owed her something. For asking, for caring, for being reportorial--he owed her something. Various pitiful scenarios regarding a blonde fill the cavernous spaces inside his chest. Have him half hoping for things that he has no right to even contemplate. In lieu of anything better, he offers a one-shouldered shrug and cocked eyebrow with his honesty, because what else did he have to give?  
  
"Regrets end badly for me." Grey-eyed, the words he spoke were kind-hearted, "As in, what I mentioned first. No, I don't regret it, not anymore. It's defined me as much as I would let myself be defined. I have things today I can't see myself living without from it. Namely, my brothers and sisters."  
  
Or most of them, and he still wishes to call Rachelle every single day, but there was nothing to be done about that. Burying his hands back in his pocket, he resumes walking quick, pushing the tale forward with every intention of skipping over the part she knew very well already was most important.  
  
"His name was Hans. Hans Lawrence Ricard--he's been in the English papers lately, if you haven't heard of him from Faye, that is. He was new himself, and alone, at that time. Bitten by a Death Eater he then killed actually," Ansel tosses the shoulder in the air again, "They'd kidnapped and beaten him, then bit him. He'd been left. But I didn't know any of that at the time, just that he was going to transform, that he was stronger, quicker, and that he didn't follow any rules but his own. Funny," he contemplates to himself, "I never asked why he agreed to turn me. He refused at most times, when I left here, both times actually--I traveled with him, helped him and the rest we collected. See, he knew they were going to be calling him back, knew that left or not, they'd use him and oh boy," he chuckles under his breath, "did they find a genius way to do that. Hm. Bad pun."  
  
He looks sideways at Amalie again, a twist on the corner of his mouth as he asks.  
  
"These are the first of the details I have yet to see reported--and I understand why, unlike the rest. You see, the Death Eaters held a bargaining chip over all of our heads unparalleled: a potion created by Harper Brackner, who had a pseudonym of Angel for years. He healed us, and as long as we took the potion routinely? The transformation became smooth...and while not ever painless, entirely at our command."  
  
Just like a man to give a non-committal gesture, and just like a smooth talker to give a vague response that didn't answer the question, well, not at first at least. His shrug made her chuckle, but the shade of his eyes caused the sound to get stuck in her throat. From green to grey and back, you couldn't blame that on the sunlight or the different colors of his wardrobe.  
  
As her chuckle finished dying, Amalie found herself nodding again, finding respect in the fact that if he had once regretted it, he didn't do so now. Sticking by your decision, and living with it was admirable, especially when it wasn't something you could take back or fix. It was either live it or get killed by it, so why shouldn't she respect him for stopping his attempt to get killed? Not that speaking out about this wasn't a sign of some masochistic death wish, because it was.  
  
As she finished the coffee, she waved her hand over the disposable cup to make it disappear and then stuffed both hands in her pockets, pulling out a small notepad and a pen to write in shorthand. She remembered everybody giving her shit for learning it, but she wasn't always going to have a laptop or voice recorder on her person now did she?  
  
She did have a voice recorder, but he did say that he wanted to keep anonymous, so it was best not to have his voice on a tape lying around her house. Honestly, she should burn the letter he had sent her about meeting too. Better safe than sorry.  
  
It was a good thing now that she had learned actually, because details were flying a thousand miles a minute, and otherwise she wouldn't have been able to keep up. Ansel would probably wish she'd forget some of these details later rather than have them written to a t.  
  
She did recognize the name, yes. Daniella had finally done her job in fessing up and delivering her macaroons. She almost corrected him at his use of Faye but realized Dani would have preferred that anyway. She took an obscene amount of pride in her last name and being referred to it by it. It was a pureblood thing, coupled with a rich people thing, all wrapped up in general British ego. Not that she didn't love Daniella, but.  
  
Her gaze lifted from the notepad again as she listened, her eyes widening again as she took this in strides. So what he meant to say was that he could change right now, right here, in broad daylight without the need of a full moon. She already knew of Harper Brackner's previous involvement with the Death Eaters, the Prophet continued to milk that story till it went dry, but she didn't know about that potion.  
  
So Hans Lawrence Ricard, after being kidnapped and tortured, travelled around the world collecting werewolves and making his own, with grand hopes and promises of independence, knowing that he was taking them to be under the Death Eaters eventually? Jesus.  
  
"So he gave you your control back," which he chose to give up in the first place inebriated but he didn't know about the rest of his 'brothers and sisters, "and you worked with the Death Eaters." Enforcers probably, the intimidation muscle, the ones to send when you needed to scare the shit out of somebody. She exhaled and then made a note, drawing a quick symbol before looking back up.  
  
"You obviously ditched in time, kept the cops off your tail," she paused and then pursed her lips as she closed her eyes in momentary embarrassment before clearing her throat, "sorry. I mean, how'd you manage to get out when they had your balls in their fist? Pardon my French. The potion?"  
  
Ansel doesn't deny it, but that he won't affirm either. Amalie was smart (and it seems the years had done their job and/or Faye had at stripping her naivete, but then he admires the resilience of her hope for everyone to do the right thing). She could read between the lines easily.  
  
The brisk remark makes him chuckle, even as he thinks it's an apt description. The horror of transforming was one thing. Pain, well, you got used to that. Accepting the fact there was a murderer living inside took longer. And it was impossible without control, which they had snatched away. His eyes were on a gull searching, low in flight near the white-tipped breaks in the Seine. Hunger drove animals to  breathtaking, beautiful, cruel acts.  
  
"Like you say, control. But this, is where my insight turns to a name familiar to every-one French." Ansel turns back to her in good humor. "D'Grey."  
  
And he winks.  
  
"The elder son, that is. The Death Eaters recruited visa vie kidnap and extortion, dah-ling, the potion was leverage we secured to sever with them personally. But there were others they never tortured, who joined for him once he did. He and Hans -- well, they go way back." Ansel screws up his lip in minute fury he has to take a moment to quell. His status as Alpha didn't erase the fact his brother had him work with the man responsible for that white treacherous powder that tasted so sweet, for the 'candies' Colette sold her scholarship for.  
Eyes green again, they rest on the gull with a fish thrashing in their talons as he finishes the thought.  
  
"You know, I came back to Paris with him to help secure aid for others like me--struggling with instinct and regrets and with death following them, I could have forgiven Hans for allying with Death Eaters. I understood that instinct. Or we could have stayed away. But to come back," now he looks at Amalie, throat thirsty, "to my home, to the city where Gabriel hopes to marry his sweetheart and my mother wants to hold her grandchild...to come -here-, and work for his old buddy, work for -D'Grey-?"  
  
Ansel's head shake is a quick jerk, but his voice remains smooth.  
  
"I liberated the pack," left Hans behind, and he won't feel the knife twisting in his gut. That would dull with time."And I won't deny that D'Grey aided in destroying the Death Eaters, he did. Was instrumental, actually. His brother did, after playing his hand at being one - I suppose now that was undercover work." Because that was so different Antonio, he thinks with a tiny chuckle. "And then he swiftly swept half a dozen out of the prisons, those he bothered to let go in the first place, and has spent all his time since Christmas consolidating his father's old throne."  
  
Then Ansel breathes out, finishes off his paper mug and squishing it into a ball. Lob up--up--and -score-, he smirks, as it bounds into a trash can a dozen feet away. When he looks back to Amalie, his smile is fond again.  
  
"But you already know that, don't you? I imagine you've 'met' him, just 'happpened across him' on the street. Especially because I hear," from his own lips, "D'Grey has a new favorite word! Girlfriend."  
  
And so the plot thickens. Her interest had already been piqued before, especially as he refused to confirm or deny her statement, but now with the addition of Olivier to the story, the interest was off the charts. After all, the Death Eaters were gone, but the plague still remained as it had for a full century already. This part she took made sure to take down carefully, that D'Grey had joined the Death Eaters and brought his own personnel along with him. Of course, she realized that it couldn't be the full story, so she would have to do some more digging before actually publishing anything that Ansel told her.  
  
She made note of the association between Hans and Olivier as well, though that she Daniella had briefly touched upon. Wrote down the reason why Ansel had returned, but how he felt about it, that she didn't write down. Instead she lowered her notepad and met his gaze as he continued to explain, her facial features softening. She couldn't offer empathy, and sympathy could only go so far, but she did understand him. Paris was Ansel's home, and he hated it under Death Eater control, and under D'Grey control. So did Amalie. Besides, the way Ansel talked about his family tugged at her heartstrings. He was either genuine or a psychopathic liar and she couldn't put money on which it was but she really hoped it was the former.  
  
She went back to scribbling so details as he continued, nodding again to show she was keeping up and following with ease, especially the part about Olivier only handing over those he didn't keep out, again, something she deduced after Dani said that Pietro wasn't in jail. That had elicited a very simple 'what the -fuck-?' from Amalie. If anybody deserved prison, it was that asshole. And the whole lot of them. When Amalie's consciousness had taken over that of the Death Eater's...that kind of thinking, that mindset just...it was disgusting.  
  
"Three points," she commented idly as he shot the cup, chuckling and then nodded at his question. Yes, that was exactly what had happened. And yes, the boyfriend/girlfriend naming was so...weird. It's like assigning a pet name to a white shark.  
  
"I'm not going to discuss Daniella's relationship, Ansel," she made that clear first things first. "But yes, I was made aware of it, I've met the brothers." Her general opinion so far is that they seemed a lot smoother than they actually were.  
  
"You know anything about Antonio's arrest?"  
  
"Mm," he says, appreciating her loyalty to her friend. Of course, it made things simpler for him: he wasn't sure yet, which side Daniella was playing for. He did know her role wasn't one he could press on until later. She was too perfectly placed within; Amalie herself would likely help him turn her at a later date.  
  
After all, clearly she didn't like it in the way her heart rate hopped and the scowl at the word 'girlfriend.'  
  
Then he chuckles, too amused by that not to point it out.  
  
"If, by knowing anything, you are referring to the evidence-the photograph, the receipts, his credit card trail, that they would have on him, as I presume you already know he's guilty, then yes." Ansel unbuttons his jacket, brushing over his cashmere sweater.  
  
"I was the one who handed it in a manilla envelope to the lead detective, Alys Dale, on the case. Oh, and I'm the one protecting their witness. For obvious reasons, I won't uh--" He gestures her fast shorthand, "--give you her whereabouts or name. I hope you'll forgive me for not trusting you to keep that off the record--it's honestly just that it's better I don't say it aloud."  
  
Her hand flew across the page as she took in the details of the evidence, whistling under her breath as she noted that it was a hefty amount of evidence and the existence of a witness pretty much consolidated the fact that it was going to trial, because Tony looked guilty as fuck. She pursed her lips and then thought briefly even if he was guilty, then should he go to jail? And why did Ansel hand over the evidence? To hurt the D'Grey organization? Most probably, as he had just voiced his displeasure about it and the cartel. Was it personal too?  
  
"That's fine," she waved off him keeping the identity of this witness a secret, knowing it was for the best, and knowing that she didn't need to know the name either, only the existence of one.  
  
"Million dollar question Ansel," she looked up from notepad and then used her pen to point at him, "why should I trust only your word on this? If I don't know it's absolutely true, I won't print it."  
  
"I thought you might say that." Ansel undoes another button as she talks, smirk bright as he regards her. Had Amalie always been this attractive? She seems to come alive under the report in a way that makes her vibrate, though she never once missed a beat or note. Shorthand, on top of that. Old-school. He likes that, though, he always has had a fondness for classics.  
  
Hand disappearing into his jacket, he pulls out the photograph, one of his own many copies and hands it to her without once dropping her gaze. He let's her take it in for a moment, and then adds, quick, "Though I don't need a million dollars for it. If I'm going to pay that much for a photograph," Hand slipping back to his pocket, he adds bright, "It is going to be something with taste."  
  
Great, then he was ready to provide evidence for why she should believe him. It certainly saved some time, though she would still do her research. Her first job in the paper was as a fact checker. She started when she was 16 and spent 3 years doing so. She wasn't going to start slacking off now.  
  
Amalie took the picture in her hand, and found herself unable to breathe for a moment. Her eyebrows screwed together as she stared at the picture. Tony's face was half obscured but it was visibly him. The skin around his eyes were veiny, his eyes red and his pupils completely black, with blood covering his mouth. A shiver ran down her back, and then she finally exhaled, her breath visible in the cold air.  
  
How did he get this? She looked up at him again, walking a fine line between being impressed and being frightened. She couldn't print this picture. That would be enough to slap her with a charge of obstruction of justice. The defense could probably make a case to throw that picture out for letting it slip into the general public. But would it be too late if everyone had already seen it?  
  
"Can I keep it?"  
  
"Of course. I have dozens." Ansel spoke as if he was discussing the weather - or perhaps that was actually greyer than their topic. The stormclouds on a distant break over the Siene left it clear to him it would be fierce outside by mid afternoon. The gentlemanly thing to do would be offer Amalie his jacket, or passage inside.   "May I buy you an -actual- drink?"     
  
He asks, pointing to a closeby bar--or maybe it was only close to his wolf senses. The smirk is unmoved. Gentleman was never precisely his style.     
  
"You look as if you need one after that picture. I don't blame you: I'd offer my own flask, but I finished it myself contemplating the particulars."  Not the gruesome nature of it (as after all, it was a succulent image to him; his distaste was knowing he shared that thought with Antonio) but she could believe that.  
  
It made sense that he would have multiple copies. She folded the photograph and put it in her pocket. What was it that she told Olivier when he intercepted her on her way to work one morning? Pics or it didn't happen. Well, the pics were here and there was no denying what they demonstrated. No amount of smooth charm could erase the image of that gruesome face. Other things, besides charm, potentially could but he wouldn't have enough time to earn them from the jury.  
  
She looked up again, the wind blowing her hair in her face. Fishing a strand as it got stuck to her lip balm, she put it behind her ear and then smiled as he offered her a drink, looking around his shoulder (even with her heeled boots she was too short to look over it).  
  
"Thanks for the offer, very tempting but I try not to drink before five," she shrugged. Hey, she was a classy woman. Most of the time. And with the way she felt she'd have to chug beer and she wasn't about to do that in public.  
  
"Nor mix business with pleasure," she added as an afterthought, more reminder to herself than anything else.  
  
"Can I ask you something?"  
  
Eyes tracking her hair in the wind almost from habit, the brief whiff of berry lip-balm wets his lips. Oh, he might have turned from business to pleasure already. With some effort, he reminds himself of Darrell (unhelpfully remembers first meeting a sixteen year old Amalie and getting his head smacked "for looking") -- and straightend up, nodding with a smirk. (And no he didn't have to clear his throat. But could one blame him for a pleasant distraction, considering the weather and their grim discussion?)  
  
"Ask away," he offers, opening both hands and spinning to rest, looped over as they came to the end of the boardwalk.     
  
"And then I hope we can conclude -our- business. Unless you're asking to partner, Mademoiselle Avenier," he smirks but stays soft, "but I would want to know exactly how strong that rule is."  
  
She put the notepad and pen back in her pockets for now, and leaned against the wooden railing, her elbows propped up to support her. She would come here because her parents used to come here, and they used to bring her and Darrell here when they were younger. Darrell would get chocolate ice-cream, with chocolate whipped cream and chocolate sprinkles and Amalie tried a different flavor every week. She would eat it overlooking the river, and held herself up to actually be able to do so; her mother or father stood behind her so that she wouldn't lose her balance or fall. Now she was tall enough she didn't have to grab on for dear life, and she had to keep her own balance.  
  
Amalie took a couple of steps back before looking at Ansel again, smirking for the first time in the course if their conversation, and answered first, "Iron-clad." Her smirk faded again as she asked what she wanted to instead.  
  
"You gave them all this evidence against Antonio but from what I've heard, he has nothing but hatred for the business. Why not try to ally with him instead? Why potentially throw away his life in prison for killing two criminals with rap sheets longer than I am tall?" So he's half vampire, so what? (So he bleeds people dry and tears them apart.) Should he go to prison for that? (He did kill them.) And what did Ansel benefit from this? (Having Olivier distracted and angry.)  
  
"Forgive me if I'm wrong, it just seems like if anyone should be sympathetic, or even empathetic to his situation, it's you." Her eyebrows as she watched him for his reaction.  
  
"There wasn't an overabundance of control in that picture."  
  
If there was any doubt in Ansel's mind that he had come to the right person, the multi-faceted "simple" question evaporates as easily as the Seine's spray in the dry air. Lifting his chin to consider her, otherwise Ansel doesn't move. Amusement crosses his smile, but in the indignant way, like he was understanding every underlying meaning possible in the words -- words that weren't subtle to begin with, but stood up and screamed: there's more to me than their seems, cheri.  
  
Almost immediately (he took a moment to acknowledge Amalie's genius; if she minds that distraction, he has to admit it doesn't bother him) he thinks of Stefanie, because of course he does. His blonde Maria was as impermeable as the Von Trapp she was named for, as captive as the moonbeam on the sand -- and in kind, captivating. To think she wouldn't cross his mind was to underestimate her, and Ansel never does that. But he won't mention her. It would insult her, and his jealousy over Stefanie wasn't the reason he'd handed the evidence over.  
  
Nor was it a noble cause, though he'd like to think there were notes of nobility involved, like the major fall in a minor song. When he speaks, he hasn't blinked, and his voice is free of judgement, or derision despite his half-tease.  
  
"Ally with one D'Grey brother against the other?" Ansel shakes his head a fraction, the chuckle he won't utter apparent in his eyes. "I thought you said you met the brothers."  
  
It had crossed his mind, once, when Tony had taken it upon himself to 'stop being a dick.' No doubt Antonio thought the advice the height of sophistication. (Actually, he doubted Tony gave a fuck if it was sophisticated or not.) It was probably even heartfelt, in a strange way. (Or else it wouldn't still be bothering him). Tony had made one thing clear though. He'd never work well with him.  
  
"You know, Amalie, that thought had occurred to me." Ansel was honest as he shuffles his arms to rest over his chest instead, still looking at her. "And if you think that by following up with evidence and asking the police to do their job, that I have no sympathy for his situation, I'd be insulted. But I think you just want to make sure I do dah-ling." He cocks an eyebrow at her. "Fact-checkers habit, and what not."  
  
Amalie has the blazing look of a Lois Lane, but there's no self-righteous triumph there. It was a quality he always valued in her brother...and her father, actually.  
  
"I have no doubt Antonio does hate the business. In his way, his arrest already might do more to undermine it than he realizes, and ironically, while I have no illusions of us joining hands and skipping merrily down the road, he might even thank me for that. With his fist, I imagine, but you can't win them all."     
  
Ansel shrugs, chuckling under his breath and then looks back to her eyes to finish his thoughts.    
  
"If you're asking, however, if I believe Tony deserves to be in prison, all I have to say is: that isn't my call. If I meant to be his judge, I should never have bothered with the mess of a trial: I take a wolf's advantage over hybrid every day. And if you mean to have me tell you he should be locked up, that you should help for that reason, I'll have to disappoint you, Amalie. I can't make that decision for you, and I wouldn't presume to tell you how to think."  
  
No, but there were countless of ways to have Antonio's help without him having to 'betray' or go against his brother. That was, if there was animosity or hostility between them that would prevent such an interaction or understanding, and it seemed from Ansel's words that there already was. So maybe it was a personal vendetta here too, amidst all the other reasons.  
  
Amalie crossed her arms together in front of her chest as the wind picked up, cradling herself to stay warm even as Ansel stood unbothered with his coat wide open. She realized it must have been a werewolf thing, now that she recalled her lessons as well as some parts of her grandmother's tome. If it could be believed, lycanthropy had originated thousands of years ago by the work of dark witches. The first werewolf had been cursed, not bitten.  
  
Pulled out of her straying thoughts once more, Amalie lifted her chin as he claimed to be insulted, or would have been if calling him unsympathetic had been her goal. It wasn't, he was right; she simply wanted him to talk again, think on his feet and not just potentially throw rehearsed lines at her. She wanted to know the truth, Ansel's truth, so that she could better dig up the missing parts of the story.  
  
She had to admit that the image of Ansel and Tony skipping down the road hand in hand was one that made her smirk and chuckle in amusement. Maybe because it was really easy to picture Antonio skipping; he chose to appear like such the child.  
  
But if Ansel didn't believe Tony should be in prison why did he hand over the evidence in the first place? Why dig for it? As she was sure, he'd have to because the police found nothing of note. To help the system, to test the system? To enrage Olivier and create an opportunity for weakness? Her curiosity would always be her undoing, especially as those were details she didn't even necessarily need to publish the article (his identity would be kept secret after all). No, she just wanted to know because she wanted to know him. Or more aptly, wanted to know if he was bullshitting her.  
  
So far her consensus was he wasn't lying to her, but neither was he telling her everything either. But as that marked the nature of conversation in general, Amalie didn't worry about it more than she usually did about information. Except, she did, because this was her brother's friend, a werewolf who had worked with Death Eaters as a means to an end, that both loved being back home and hated it because nothing had changed since he had left; every single problem that there had been before, there was now. So yes, it was personal, and that was extremely risky.  
  
"I don't believe he should go to jail," she admitted as soon as she realized how she felt. Amalie wasn't finished however, so she continued to explain herself.  
  
"But if it manages to undermine the business," she uses his words, "then so be it. And either way, I'm not losing sleep over it."  
  
Now that's she said it aloud, it solidified in her own mind. Diamond-hard, there was no going back. Soon as she went home, she had an article to write.


	5. Timing Me?

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> (you'll make me want to cheat)

Well, the first night in jail wasn't so bad. The mattress was lumpy and the blanket was scratchy. Thankfully, they were both easily remediated by a couple of spells (that took him longer than he cared to admit; he was a little distracted). There was no replacing Madame Sir Cuddles, though. He had gotten used to that fluffy little teddy. Was it all part of Dani's master plan to shift his codependency on an object instead? Did he look like Mark Walhberg in Ted?  
  
He also spent the night serenading everyone with Justin Timberlake, until they told him to shut up the third time, then he brought the volume down to a table chit-chat and started talking to himself. He had a lot of thoughts to share...with himself, so that took up a few hours. Then he brainstormed aloud the next chapter of his novel. If there was one thing Tony never got, it was bored.  
  
Finally it was morning, pretty fucking early in the morning too. He looked up from his pillow, eyes squinted and then mumbled 'five more minutes mommy'. Tony might have ignored him too if the officer hadn't told him he had a visitor. Tony looked up again, focuses his eyes and saw Olivier through the bars, dressed in his finest suit and tie, along with his scowl.   
  
"D'Grey in the hizz-houuuuse," Tony sat up straight and wondered what strings he pulled on to come directly to the cell. Hopefully no heartstrings, at least no literal ones.  
  
Tony waited for Olivier to do his usual dismissal that the officer was less than thrilled to do, how shocking, before speaking up.  
  
"Bad night, fratello?"   
  
Olivier was livid.  
  
He was angry first and foremost with the sheer amount of evidence: a photograph, a receipt, the witness--this would go to trial, there was no way around that he could see, considering the sheer publicity. That didn't mean he did not have men and women looking for said witness, just that he was doubtful she'd be appearing. He was well-aware this was an attack on him too -- and for oh, the bajillionth time, his brother was the one on the line. Seriously, that witness had better stay hidden: he was in the mood to rip hearts out, and something told him Tony wouldn't appreciate that.  
  
Then there was the fact the last thing he'd said to his brother hadn't been verbal so much as a...glass lamp shattering at the door frame Tony was storming out of.  
  
After all he'd done for this city, he mutters with a sticky palm brushing over his lips. His, city, dammit - his. It might go to trial, but oh, he knew the game to play. He hadn't slept. Instead he'd been formulating a plan -- and wouldn't Tony be proud he'd listened to him?  
  
Still, it was child's play to have the chief place Tony in a solitary cell until the arraignment (all the prisoners he gave them might have had a bone to pick with his brother; surely she could help a good Samaritan out) -- even easier to get the right to visit when the officer in central booking had such financial issues. The one walking him now? Yeah, that glare was on his wife's behalf. But really, Olivier had never planned to -actually- expose her side business.   
  
He just was--well, pissed.  
  
Fine, there was also the fact that Tony -had- killed them, both of them, because he couldn't control himself at the sight of blood and had stubbornly ignored his warning on the matter. None whatsoever, because drinking human blood was immoral--geesh, you'd have thought someone who drank, smoked and fucked since early teens would have known the problem with abstinence only.   
  
Needless to say, Oli was a little on edge when Tony greets him jovial and sarcastic as ever. Waiting to respond until they were alone, he let's the bars shut behind him, steps to lean against the wall opposing his brother's "bed."  
  
"You could say that, fratello." He retorts instantly in the same tone. "My only consolation is I'm betting not as bad as yours."  
  
Then he winced.   
  
"Bad?" He rubbed his eyes and then looked around before chuckling, leaning back against the wall and crossing his legs by his ankles on top of the narrow bed. Tony shrugged and sighed, smirking.  
  
"It's a little bigger than my freshman dorm, actually. And I had to share it someone else. Wasn't too bad! Sung some songs, did some out loud reading, had a nice conversation with myself. Turns out, I've been neglecting me. Once I get out, I'm taking myself to the movies to try and rekindle my relationship."  
  
Not one little chuckle, not an earnest one at least. Tony's smirk faded slowly before he wrung his hands together and laid them across his knees. Tony had been joking when he asked his brother if he'd had a rough night, mostly, but now Tony was seeing that he had. Past how upstanding he looked, even if it was difficult not to look good in Armani, Olivier did like a mess.  
  
"Did you even sleep?"  
  
Everything Tony listed aloud makes him doubly glad he succeeded in getting his brother a single room: he can't imagine the floor, let alone general public, had appreciated the serenading.  
  
"You know," Olivier tries to crack a smile, "fabulous, as your singing voice is. Maybe, consider not pissing off the other inmates." He almost succeeds in smiling too, but as Tony's smirk fails, so does his. He sighs, then pushes off the wall, shaking his head slowly and moving to sit on the bed closer to his brother. (The distance had been too great.)  
  
"No." He exhales, hands falling on to his knees. "Not at all. Daniella already scolded me--ah, reminds me," he slips a hand into his chest pocket and pulls a fresh chocolate chip cookie out for him, handing it to his brother.  
   
His eyes meet Tony's without blinking, but he finally managed a very, small smile.   
  
Tony cocked his eyebrows once as he exhaled noisily.  
  
"When have I ever cared whether or not I piss someone off?" Actually, many times, but the trick was in the fact that when those times did happen, no one noticed or it wasn't memorable enough to keep it filed away for later use. If unique situations couldn't be recalled, then voila, his point stood. Who said he was bad at this game?  
  
No one of importance to Tony.  
  
He pursed his lips together briefly as Olivier answered his question honestly once he was seated on the bed with him. No, and if Dani was scolding him for not sleeping then she couldn't have been sleeping much to begin with. He felt touched, but not as much as when he saw the cookie. He smiled and then took it with a chuckle.  
  
"If it's this easy to sneak me in a cookie, you're getting me some cigarettes next time," he smirked and then took a bite out of the cookie, marveling at the fact it could still be warm; the chocolate chips melted in his mouth. He wished he had a glass of milk to go with it.  
  
"Thank her for me, and then tell her that obviously it's nothing more than a consolation prize because she doesn't love me enough and this is her way of saying it." He smirked again, wiggling his eyebrows as he took in another bite. "Do you hear that?," he lifted the cookie and then swallowed the bite he had in his mouth, "That's the cookie delivering her message."  
  
Olivier snorted: that was true, his brother never cared, but he shook his head and couldn't help the mumble of, "yeah and look where you are."   
  
Of course, that blade was double ended and he rubbed at his throat, brushing the cookie crumbs off his jacket. They bounce, repelled by the Armani. This was...--such a basic failure. Tony told him he killed them (wiped the DNA, but unfortunately left the bodies there). He had broken the photo developers in the area when he saw the cops already swarmed; he confounded dozens of people being interviewed while they were canvassed--whomever took that photograph had run off before he arrived, he thinks. But it didn't excuse the fact that he should have been able to stop this cold, long before Tony was taken.   
  
Small smile picking up momentarily, he exhales and shakes his head once. "Cigarettes? You run out of your fund that fast?"  
  
He pressed his hands together back on his knee-caps, squeezing hard and shaking his head just once.  
  
"And you can tell her that yourself when I get you out of here."  
  
"I'm not here because I pissed someone off, Olivier," Tony spoke, making sure not to mumble it, but it was quiet mostly because his throat had suddenly gone dry. Tony didn't like the way that was worded. He wasn't in here because of that, he was in here because he lost control and took away lives. And even still, it wasn't murder murder was predetermined. Those 16 people he killed, yeah, those were cold-blooded murders. If he had been facing trial for those then he would have confessed already.  
  
"I have access to my fund here? Why didn't you say so?! I'll order some room service," He snorted and shook his head. Actually cigarettes wouldn't be half bad. They could certainly keep the edge off that was only bound to come up as the weeks began to pass. Weeks, oi vey.  
  
"You said it, when I get out if here. What's that, cookie?" He raised the cookie to his ear and then dropped his mouth in a soundless gasp. "She doesn't love me enough to bake a shiv into the cookie?" He shakes his head with an air of disappointment before finishing the cookie with a smirk.  
  
"No," Olivier agrees simply. The unspoken 'but because you lost control and killed someone, which started when you pissed them off' actually wasn't so much unspoken as 'unshouted.' With his eyebrows. Then he raises the hand to smooth them back down. The momentary amusement he found in Tony answering a cookie as if it was a mobile was small -- but for some probably sentimental reason, that made it matter more.  
  
So Olivier answered that first.   
  
"Okay, is she actually there? Because if anyone could find a way to bake a magical listening bug into a cookie, it's my girlfriend." He probably shouldn't like that as much as he did, but...too late.  
  
Elbow crunching into his thigh as he looks sideways to his brother, he waits a moment, surveying him. Tony had slept, but not well--it sounded like he'd been up half the night in concert, inspired writing and heavy relationship therapy anyway. Just like he had when he was eleven. And when he was fourteen.  
  
Sleeplessness had a sentimental, nostalgic side effect apparently.  
  
Olivier said, "A shiv, though? Please, fratello, I'm never that crude."  
  
Yeah yeah yeah, he waved his hand at Olivier and his eyebrows so they could settle down. That unspoken comment came loud and clear. Time to end it, because let's not even get in to the subject of assigning blame. Last time they had talked (yelled) he'd been wholly determined to get across one point: Tony's decisions, Tony's responsibilities, Tony's guilt, some for Glen Coco, and none for Olivier D'Grey, bye. Now it was basically up to Olivier to get him out, and given that his brother had recently accepted Jesus Christ as his lord and guilt-provider, there was plenty of that too.  
  
"If anyone could find a way to say the word girlfriend in every conversation it would be your girlfriend's boyfriend." He countered with amused snark, licking his finger off the chocolate before adding.  
  
"If it was in then whoops, now she gets to listen to my digestive process. Probably more intimate than you'd like, I'm sure." And they've cuddled! Dani was a good cuddler, she was like a body pillow. A very demanding body pillow.  
  
"Ooh, my bad," he lifted his hands in defense, letting them drop to his knees after. Of course, the illustrious Olivier D'Grey would never be so basic so as to slip a shiv. Or a key. Nope, his brother would be the one initiating the prison break a la Dark Knight Rises.  
  
"So has the press gotten ahold of the story yet?"  
  
"I regret nothing." Olivier said, smirk lifting for a second at the oft-repeated meme from a decade ago that had been one of his brother's favorites to quote (in Italian, as he did now). Besides, he didn't see a problem working girlfriend into every conversation -- he was proud of it. Proud of Dani too; the fact she was bothering him about Tony still only makes him like her more.  
  
Except his smirk was dry and twisted within seconds as, Olivier had plenty he regrets. At this moment he regretted his brother sitting in a jail cell--but that was too big to leave any energy to regret something as basic as obsessing (maybe a little) on the word girlfriend.  
  
"Oh yeah. Twitter broke the news, I believe." Olivier scowled for a second; it was hard to put a moratorium on the papers when a citizen could tweet spying Tony go to booking. At least there hadn't been pictures. "Within a few hours, there were hundreds of tweets too. You'll be happy to know a fairly decent amount of them think you're the hottest killer they've ever seen, and when you get out --" because even the people of France seemed to easily expect him to do that, "you should give them a call."  
  
He was joking. Olivier reached over to squeeze his brother's shoulder (amazed how much doing so relaxes him) and adds,  
  
"In fact I'd expect a 'Free Tonio' wet-t-shirt brigade within a few days."  
  
Tony snorted at Olivier's simple response and rubbed the back of his neck as he thought to himself 'that makes one of us', but it was too serious a thought to linger on, let alone express aloud so he moved on.  
  
Twitter! Wonderful. He wondered if he was trending. He really should have thought this through, because now he was going to be renowned for his infamy. Well, that's if they paid any attention to world news. If it got to a certain point though, it would probably get big enough to go global. And once he got acquitted, if he got acquitted, the He-Man Tony Haters Club would only grow in numbers. Those who would be appalled that the justice system let a clear killer walk free. He'd be like OJ Simpson, or George Zimmerman.  
  
Any chance of moving his trial to the American state of Florida?  
  
"Psycho killeeeer, qu'est que c'est?" He sung under his breath before laughing and then shaking his head, smiling a little easier when Olivier squeezed his shoulder.  
  
"Make sure to take lots of pictures then."  
  
"Yeah," he chuckles once, patting the shoulder again, "obviously I will. Though I'm gonna have to multi-task, considering how lethal a certain jealous girl of yours is."  
  
Look, if Tony got to bother him about his girl, it went both ways. Even if Stefanie wasn't officially his (nor he officially hers). Patting twice again, he took his hand back as he looked Tony in the eye again.  
  
"I am going to talk to the press myself later too, Tony. And I need to know what -you're- going to say to them. Truth is I'll have a much easier time if that sympathy moves from people attracted to you to people understanding you as -you-. I know the facts of this case. The public won't know the evidence. But there are other facts they could know that are equally true. You went to school for criminal justice, for example."  
  
"All my girls are like that though," he said quick enough, smug smirk on his face. Nope, they weren't talking about him, especially not about his relationship with a certain lethal woman. Let that be a discussion for when he was out of here and the relationship became a little more viable. Not much, but just a little more, given that they wouldn't have a life sentence in prison standing in the way on top of -every- other thing. Yes, universe, I hear you loud and clear, he thought. Loud and clear.  
  
"Whatever happened to the truth will you set you free?" He asked in a dry, almost mocking tone. Well the truth would set his soul free, he supposed, but he was worried more about his body now.   
  
Tony exhales, rubbing his face and then dropping it to wring his hands together. "That's irrelevant and you know it. You just want to paint me in a better light to the public to gain their sympathy in the vague hope that the jury happens to be sympathetic to me? I'm not going to lie, Olivier. I'll agree to shut up, nothing else."  
  
"I didn't ask you to lie." Olivier objects immediately, shaking his head once. "And I'm not talking about a vague hope, because I know you can be persuasive as sin -- I said it would be easier. Not twenty-four hours have passed, they've already, in the world, named you guilty. Not because of evidence in a trial, not because of a tell-all story - but because of your last name."  
  
Olivier has to stop, to take a breath. Considering what he was about to say, the irony inherent, he needed it.   
  
"Tell the truth, Tony. It's not irrelevant. You know the way the law works because you took classes on justice. Not because Dad, nor me, taught you loopholes. You ran away from home to go to school across the ocean, to get away from Dad. You refused to take money from him. You're paying me back--or you were, until your assets were frozen."  
  
He pulls back on the bed, but only to swivel so his knee rests on the thin mattress. The wireframe creaks. His hand comes up, gesturing furiously, just once at his brother.   
  
"They are going to paint you as Dad's favorite son. So tell the truth about what you really -were- and -are.-"  
  
He lifted his eyebrows, smirking momentarily only because of the irony of that statement. He lifted his hand and then placed it up to his nose as if he was sharing a secret before he whispered, "I am guilty."  
  
This made no sense, how could he be the favorite son when he just got caught? He was like a...guppy, Olivier was the big fish in the pond. Them's the breaks, apparently. You spend your life trying to get away from the last name and the family legacy and look where he was now. Even after the running away and everything Olivier just said.  
  
"Are as in present tense? That's debatable don't you think?"  
  
Thank heavens (were there seven of those too?) he had the foresight to use that charm of Harper's and ensure that camera surveillance was picking up them talking about apple pie. Well, except for the fact now he kind of wanted apple pie. That was the true difficulty in being a D'Grey, Oli thinks without much amusement despite his smirk: you mention something, they start craving it.    
  
"No, I don't think it's debatable." Olivier shook his head with insistence, deciding not to mention 'are' was usually present tense unless Tony was speaking a made-up language. Half the time it sounded like his brother was to him, in any case. Seven hells, Hasta la vista baby, may the force be with you, etc, etc.     
  
"But you tell me, Tony, if it's so debatable: if you had the witness, the woman who took that photograph, right here. What would you do? Rip her heart out?"  
  
"No," he rolled his eyes and exhaled, "And you won't either, Olivier. I don't want as much as a bribe to reach that woman. Now a lesson on the abusive nature of a vampire fetish, that's more along the lines of something I would do." It was only half a joke, and he didn't manage to laugh about it.  
  
"And don't threaten Detective Dale, no matter how much she threatens you. It's her job, I'm a criminal, you're a criminal and they don't deserved to be harassed for doing the right thing."  
  
"Exactly my point, fratello." Olivier said, choosing entirely to ignore the judgmental point of his brothers own words. What was he, if not phenomenally apt at repurposing statements to his own agenda and viewpoint? It was one of his greatest assets given his profession -- and probably, most irritating flaws his brother has to deal with. Trigger warning: D'Grey twists words to alarming, infuriating extent.  
  
Except at least in this case, that's what Tony did too.   
  
"That's what Dad would have done. It certainly occurred to me. Yet in occurring to you it was accompanied by a neon disclaimer -- "If you do this, Oli, I will rip out -your- heart." Maybe not that harsh, but I wouldn't be surprised if that thought crossed your mind anymore than I bet you're surprised ripping her heart out crossed mine."   
  
Note he didn't say he wouldn't do it. He didn't say he was going to either. Olivier D'Grey was good at walking that line too. Leaning backwards to settle more on the bed still, he folds arms on his lap, rubs his palm over his wrist, again and again and again. When he speaks, his eyes are on his brothers wrists. The magical cuffs had left little red rings, and while they were nothing compared to how he'd seen his brother's hands before, it still stung.   
  
Voice shadowed by it, he says, "Dad hurt you enough growing up, Tonio. I don't want even his name to hurt you now. You ran, you can say that. Because an even better story from the prosecution isn't favoritism, however much your snark with Detective Dale plays into that -- it's the thought - the fallacy - you were desperate for Dad's approval."  
  
"All I heard was 'blah blah blah I'm not saying anything blah blah blah I don't promise anything, blah blah blah.' Quite good, I should be taking notes." He restrained an eye roll, exhaling instead and leaning his head against the wall, the only wall that wasn't made of bars here. There was some heavy irony in the fact he'd help quite a few people get out of cells, as well as put some in, and now he was here too.  
  
He looked sideways at Olivier as he spoke again, saying that which was always obvious but never said aloud. Yeah, he did, he wanted to say, but he hurt you too jackass. Why wasn't he saying that aloud again, what was stopping him? Well, what always stopped him now from speaking about their father. Couldn't keep quiet through this though.  
  
"For a while I did you know," Tony brought up and then swallowed on a dry throat. "You might not remember it, because I made sure to cover it with vehement distaste and later loathing, but I was. He stole me from mom, but he was the only parent I had left. And after he gave me Drogon I really tried. But I never measured up, so I stopped trying. I wasn't going to spend my life trying to make someone else happy." He shrugged and then quickly added, "And yeah, I realized soon enough he was a power-hungry, narcissistic and sadistic asshole. Happens. So sure, I got hurt. But you did too. Don't act like everything was perfectly peachy keen for you, Olivier, it wasn't. Kids should never have to grow up like we did, like you did.   
  
You were afraid of him. You loved him, but I could see that you were. You were always so perfect, so precise around him, because there couldn't be one single hair out of place. And it wasn't, you were the golden boy, you always made him proud. But there was that hint in your eyes while you waited for his 'seal of approval', that worry about what would happen if you failed." Tony honestly had no idea where all of that came from, somewhere within his chest probably, but he closed his mouth again, if only for a few seconds.  
  
"And you were afraid for me, because I was always failing. Most of the time purposefully, and you're afraid for me now. Well, don't be. I'm not. I'm a pretty tough son of a cock, and you don't fail, you'll help me get out of this, just do it right."  
  
Yeah, I know, Olivier almost said, but his throat was too dry. Tony wanted their father's love for years (just like he wanted Belle's), it's why he made himself look his little brother in the eye when he pointed it out. That, and because it was his own desperation for approval that led him to become everything he was. Don't be dense, he knew that about himself. You could say a lot about Olivier D'Grey, but disillusioned about his sins wasn't one of them.  
  
Just because he disdained of this government deriving their Moral Authority from such unreliable sources as the newspapers, word-of-mouth, gossip, archaic ideas of good and evil, and a strange adherence to religion -- it didn't make him unaware of his own immorality. He was hyper aware of it.   
  
Or maybe he wasn't, considering where his brother chose to take the conversation. Throat seeming only to get drier, everything in his chest winding tighter and tighter as if each word tugged on a clock-string, like his brother was trying to make the cuckoo crow.  
  
(Olivier seriously needed to sleep.)  
  
"Yeah, I was afraid of him." He doesn't see the point in lying about it. "And I was afraid of you, not just for you. I was afraid, when I started understanding the depth of your loathing, that you were going to leave me and never come back. Ironic, really, you had to leave and come back before I believed you wouldn't. And you had to scream it at me." He rubbed the back of his neck.  
  
"I'm not pretending I grew up peachy keen, Tonio, I grew up learning how to survive. And learning, how to subjagate and prioritize and rank person over person, I know I didn't end up with moral superiority. I know that because of you. I know because what I consider a victory is often against what might be in society's best interest, because I can't imagine that a martyr's sacrifice ever benefits society either. I can't imagine a cause worth dying for."  
  
Except Tony's life.  
  
"But how I grew up--that, is irrelevant right now. Yes, I was afraid. But even if I hadn't been. I did love him. I learned good things from him too, and we can disagree about that until the end of time. It doesn't excuse a damn thing he did to you. It doesn't undermine -or- justify your suffering because you aren't me. Anymore than I'm you. And I am going to get you out of this, Tony, I am, as I always have, because that's who I am.   
  
It doesn't mean you shouldn't walk up to a camera and swear on George R R Martin killing another Stark that you have never, wanted to be like me. Except fashion sense." He allows, cracking a small smile. "That I do think you took from me. With more white."  
  
Olivier brushes off his black Armani sleeve, and shrugs, feeling...oddly lighter, if only for a second.   
  
"Exactly. How you grew up is irrelevant. How I grew up, what I did, that's irrelevant. It's irrelevant up until that day. I'm not going to plead insanity, I'm not going the press and telling them the sob story of how Tony D'Grey never wanted to be Remington D'Grey. I'm not going to ask for pity, and I'm not going to ask for sympathy. The long road of choices and mistakes that drove me to killing Bruce and Alain isn't theirs to stomp down through." Tony shook his head and swallowed again, after repurposing his earlier words. His brother was a great speaker, but at times a very shit listener. Ironic, you might say, but it was the true.   
  
"I lived a little less than half my life spiting the man. That's a lot of energy to waste on someone, and I'm not dragging him back up again. I'm not going to make it known to the world how...pathetic, I am. Just strutting around and rebelling because I was never good enough so fuck him and fuck everybody else, that is so childish. I'm not going to base my defense on the fact that everything I did, I did to spite daddy when the counterpoint to that that they'd bring up is that now I'm doing it to impress you. I'm not inviting the world into our problems, let them talk about it if they want, but I won't add fuel to that fire.  
  
Especially with a lie." He turned his head again, eyebrows raised. "For years all I wanted to be was you. A less lame version of you anyways. And then when I didn't anymore I just didn't want you to be dad, and you aren't.  
  
I still look up to you, can't lie about that. Still want to kill you half the time, but that goes with the territory. I'm not making any of this into some big publicity stunt. You can forget it." He dropped his hands back on his thighs and shrugged.  
  
"I'm not painting myself the victim. I've stopped being a victim a long time ago, I'm not going back to it."  
  
"You haven't."  
  
It had stuck Olivier dumb and silent to say anything back to the idea that Tony not only had looked up to him but does--present tense. How could that be true? How, when he'd...  
  
...done everything he asked of him in regard to taking the Death Eaters down, including killing these two thugs? All right, fine, maybe he could see the counterpoint now. And maybe he actually had seen it before--the argument they had yesterday for him had certainly been based around the idea that Tony was becoming him. That somewhere along the way his little brother had started killing, torturing, manipulating the legal system and blatantly thrown away his morality that once had been so staunchly black and white 'a life is a life.' Tony threw it at him now, but it was in spite.   
  
And thank god (how sick was he?). He didn't want Tony to believe that. He doesn't want his brother to confess. Wasn't there some way truth could set him free without locking his brother in a cell?  
  
Mouth gaping as his throat thirsts for something to say (and the breath to fuel it), he finds it abruptly when Tony says he stopped being a victim-cutting right back in with his chin jerking up.  
  
"Yes," it's point blank, "according to this government's rules, you and I are both criminal. And yes, according to a holy book, we're immoral demons who don't deserve to live. It's semantics, Tony, because I -do- say fuck that. There is no reason you shouldn't live. And if the point, of locking criminals up, is keeping society at large safer than they should let you out right now -- because the same bloodlust that drove you that night is with you now, and they're throwing you in a place where violence is the norm. Without offering a way out, without offering anyway to redeem yourself -- that isn't making you a victim? You're applying a mindset of muggle law to magical issues. If a human kills a cow for food, that's Sunday market. If they accidentally shoot the bird while they're trying to shoot a deer, that's just bad luck. And I know, that our eternal struggle, is being half -- but we have just as much predator as prey, and vice versa. You can't expect a world that cannot understand that lust as anything more than metaphor to give you any kind of justice. That makes -no- logical sense. And Bruce and Alain? They'd killed more than you have. At least until Notre Dame."   
  
Olivier winced: he hated that addition. He hates, how many Tony killed, in mercy -- saving them from *him.*   
  
"You told me once," he finds his voice dry again, not even sure if they were arguing or reconciling anymore, "that Dad deserved to rot in a prison cell for all he'd done. And it took me a while. I might have done it for you. But in the end Tonio," he speaks now in rapid Italian, "I did agree with you. I did want him to face justice. He was never going to let it happen, but I tried. I tried, we did, because a part of me already knew he faced a very different kind of justice having you for a son. I could never have gone against him, if not for you because you're right, you're exactly right, I was terrified of him. I was terrified of letting him down. Madone--! I probably, still am.   
  
But you are a victim of that genetic bloodlust if nothing else, and that is something no one on that jury is going to understand. And that night, you were a victim of blackmail, in that if your cover was blown, you knew Roswell wouldn't hesitate to hurt me. Don't," he shook his head hard, "don't even get me started on what that pink-haired bitch did.  
  
I'm not asking you to plead insanity. But this isn't a sob story, Tony, and it's not asking for sympathy. I want you to have a fair trial, Tony, in life -- not in court. I want you, to feel justified, and how you grew up isn't irrelevant to that--it's context! I'm not the one on trial, my upbringing is immaterial--yours isn't! I want you to have justice. Because I know it's what you can live with. I know it's not until you stop trying to punish yourself, and accept yourself, that you're going to be able to forgive yourself either. You won't stop being angry. And that, that is what I want for you."  
  
Olivier has to stop, because he starts rubbing his forehead really hard, and he's out of breath. So he falls silent, mumbling out in frustration 'I don't even know what we're doing right now,' both knees now coming up on the bed, and he hugs them, tight.  
  
When he speaks again, he has a half smile on his lips as he adds, expression dazed, smile lazy,  
  
"You want to impress me?"  
  
"I'm sure if I agreed to give you up they would offer me a way out, but since that's off the table," he chuckled even though it wasn't funny in the slightest. He just needed something to say, otherwise his throat was gonna stick together and he wouldn't ever find a way to talk again. Well that wasn't too true either, he always did manage a way.  
  
"Redemption's for religion, fratello, and character arcs in fiction. I understand that morality is entirely in our minds, a social construct, but that's why there's order and not running around like maniacs in a zombie apocalypse. It's the way things are, and it works. For the most part, it works, no it's not perfect but what is? I happen to like the system, I can't just change my mind because now I'm the one who's caught. No, I can't explain fully to a muggle court, and they'll never fully know so what's the-" he stopped himself there and rubbed his face with both hands, sighing after, pursing his lips together as he continued to listen to Olivier and fought to keep from interrupting until he couldn't anymore.  
  
"A different justice?" His eyebrows furrowed. "That's right, because you knew I was bound to kill him eventually, right." He swallowed and shook his head. It wasn't the first time Olivier had said it. Years before he even came back Olivier was yelling at him that he was training himself to kill their father. Tony may have wanted his father dead, but he never would have done it if he had any other choice. For a long time Tony had wished it'd have been someone else and now Olivier was here basically admitting that he agreed to help Tony, believing it was futile, in order to avoid...exactly what had happened. Olivier didn't believe their father could be taken down, well, Tony proved that wrong. Even mountains fell with time.  
  
"I've -been- impressing you already, pft, please." He waved his hand and then licked his dry lips before asking.  
  
"Would you put yourself out there like that? If it were you instead, would you do what you're asking me to do?"  
  
"I hate it." He said it immediately, even if it was pointless, because it wasn't like that ever stopped his brother. And he really, did, significantly hate it: they were judging his brother wholly while they could never have the full story. Cell doors, bars on the window, blood everywhere--if there was anywhere likely to tempt his brother it was prison, not to mention drive him crazy. Tony didn't deserve this.   
  
But he exhales, nodding absently in agreement for the first part.  
  
"You know I don't want you to take that off the table, Tony." He says first, even if he was thankful his brother wouldn't do it too. The truth was, if he couldn't get his brother out of this, he might offer it to the chief himself. Only he couldn't see how both of them in jail was going to help.  
  
Bitter, he rubs at his throat, hoping it somehow was going to give moisture magically. Exhaustion and discussing the cravings wasn't helping--and Dani couldn't take it two days in a row. No matter what she said.   
He was listening hard, but then he suddenly laughs once.   
  
"No, not because you were going to kill him." Olivier shook his head because as poetic as it was, he'd never admitted to himself that it would go there. The smirk on his lips, indignant and dry wasn't moving. "Because you wouldn't do anything he wanted anymore. Because all Dad wanted was a family, Tony, that followed his rules, and not only did you refuse -- you reminded him of Belle from the start.  
  
You punished him a long time before you picked up that gun."  
  
He exhales, harsh, hot -- dropping his hands back onto his thigh now and cuffing his wrist off. As he looks at his brother, he thinks: would he? He had a public perception already, he loved disrupting people's expectations of him -- but...damn't, why did Tony have to ask that?!  
  
He laughs to himself once, just as indignant.  
  
"I'm not asking you to tell them you shot Dad -- though, yeah," and man that was strange to say aloud, "probably would make them like you more. I just am asking you...help yourself. And yes, I would do that, I do pretty much everything I can to keep out of jail. Goddammit Tonio, I just want you home with me."  
  
He shifts on the bed, shoulder blades locking, unlocking, relocking. Voice parched, he looks back to his wrist, nodding absently as he spoke.  
  
"I didn't know you still looked up to me."  
  
"Life sucks, get a helmet," he lifted his hand and then bonked him on the forehead with his open palm. "Helmet would have done you good right about seven seconds ago." Tony thought he was so funny sometimes, but given that his humor probably wasn't going to be funny to anyone at all in prison, he wanted to take the opportunity.  
  
Tony raised his head again as Olivier explained himself and then started smirking as well. Could you blame him? He was glad he had reminded Remington of mom. Tony then briefly wondered if Olivier felt the way he did right now every time he referred to their father by name. Wasn't a very pleasant feeling.  
  
"Help myself, what is this concept you speak of?" He chuckled and then rubbed the back of his neck, considering it. Before he could consider it for long though, Olivier interrupted him again. Aw, hell, now there was no going back. Tony smiled and then chuckled a little to ward off some discomfort that he had let his brother think that for God knows how long now.  
  
"This might be half the prison blues talking by the way," he began, chuckling again. "I know I gave you a lot of shit. Give you," he changed the tense before Olivier gave him the eyebrows but too late, "a lot of shit, for everything. And I might have been a...tiny bit harsh yesterday. You're not useless, Oli. I was projecting, and only half angry at you. That doesn't mean I don't look up to you. You're my brother and you might not have the best morals, but you've got a good heart. Don't scoff, it's true." He bumped his shoulder with his own.  
  
"Oh man," he chuckled and shook his head, "You've got to get me out of here, in a week I'm going to be writing Stef love songs. In two I'm going to have to change the 'Conflict of Interest' -working title by the way- plot so Cariah live happily ever after. In three, I'll direct a musical. I'll call it Love Bites. Or Blood, Sex, and Magic. Ribcage Motel?"  
  
Was it just Olivier, or were years disappearing from his brother before his eyes? Rubbing where he was bopped on the head, a brief chuckled exhale was on his lips before he shook his head, unable to sustain it. Though he often told his brother, surly and eye-rolling, Tony acted twelve years old-- now he felt he was watching the teenage channel again, listening to Tony bounce around the cell even though he hadn't moved.  
  
When they were little, he'd thought Tony didn't take anything seriously. Wide-eyed wonder was such a common expression for him, Olivier shouldn't be surprised that for a second Tonio sounded like 'oh look! I'm in jail now! cool, that's new!' He grits down on his teeth, eyes pricking with tears.  
  
"A tiny bit?" Oli echoes, indignant yes, but mostly looking for something to say. Great, now he was the one being a dick. And he shouldn't be, Tonio was being sincere.  
  
A hundred objections in his throat, he chokes out a laugh instead--just one-- when Tony bumps his shoulder. Olivier was glad. It wasn't often anymore he remembered that his brother thought he's 'deeply good' and even if he disagrees, he wants to be. Every bone in his twisted hybrid body craves that more than blood; that he could use his 'great power responsibly' and change the world for good. There'd never been a doubt he'd change the world.  
  
Hand rubbing over his eyes to clear tears, Olivier chuckles again at the abrupt musical titles and then groaned, for show (mostly), slapping his thigh.  
  
"Yeah, yeah, ai mi madone fratello, come here--" Olivier cut himself off as he yanks his brother into a tight, fierce embrace, determination written in a stiff upper lip. 'I'm not afraid', Tony had said, 'You'll get me out of this.' He can't prove him wrong. Then he really would be useless.  
  
"Of course," he mutters, patting his brother's upper back, " you'll need to get JT's permission if you feature his music in it, so I'll see what I can do about getting ahold of him too."  
  
"You know when I'm willingly admitting I'm wrong, the least you can do is give me an easier time, you know how hard this is for me." It was only half a joke. The phrase stubborn as a mule fit Tony very well especially when it was regarding him taking something back. How many awful things has he shouted that he never once took back (and a good majority of them to Olivier)? Countless.  
  
Pretending not to notice Olivier wiping at his eyes, he instead chose to list out tentative titles for his big musical hit. His brother cut him off before he could suggest the title 'All Veins Lead To The Same Heart' and pulled him into a hug. Tony kept grinning, his reluctance only for show, before he returned the hug, clapping his back.  
  
His grin failed him momentarily, along with his bravery, before he caught himself. In times of doubt, a voice rang out in his ears and whispered: What Would Sansa Stark Do?  
  
He must be strong. Like his lady mother, or in this case mobster brother but same difference. He swallowed and then squeezed Olivier's shoulders again before pulling back, apalled.  
  
"Oh God. What's Justin going to think of me?!"   
  
All the time he thought his brother wasn't serious had eventually taught him -- it wasn't an awkward, difficult, frightening situation until his brother made a poor and/or twisted insensitive joke. Always is the same thing as never, he thinks. His brother relaxed and joked - because his life had never been anything but fucked up seriousness.   
  
"Oh -now- you say that?" Olivier joked right back with him, forcing a smile as much as he could back onto his lips as Tony broke in. "It's JT you really want to impress, isn't it?"   
  
Pft. He pulls back, but his hand lingers for a second on clapping Tony's shoulder. Letting go was -- too literal.  
  
"You know I wouldn't worry so much, probably helps your street cred, here."  
  
"Ah, you've caught me!" He smirked, chuckling and shook his head. It was a joke obviously because he might worship JT, the president of pop, but he didn't live his life trying to impress him. Tony would like to say that he didn't live his life trying to impress anybody but that would be a lie, one that he had already proved wrong a few minutes ago with his words anyhow.  
  
"Shut up, Oli," he chuckled and shook his head. Street cred, right, sure.  
  
Olivier didn't think he'd been saying much actually, but he bumps his shoulder back, using the recoil to physically force him to pull back from his brother. He wished he could be handing his brother anything else, telling him anything else but the truth was he caught a glimpse of his watch and knew he had a date with the press.  
  
Which meant he had to leave his brother. Here. In a cell. With nothing to do (though he'd made an impressive argument against boredom), nothing to see, no one to talk with, no alcohol (or blood) or--anything. Olivier had thought that he'd feel a little more relaxed when he could see his brother. Like seemed to be his lot in life right now, he'd been dead wrong.  
  
Exhaling as he goes to stand, heavily, he wipes his palms off on his slacks, then says calmly as he could manage--slipping into the mask of composed D'Grey without effort, "I'll work on the cigarettes then. Actually, you might have company here soon." If she called back.  
  
He bit on his tongue for a moment before regarding Tony with a head tilt, and swearing, "I -will- get you out of this. I promise."  
  
He had a feeling the goodbye had been fast approaching. It was better this way, that way he didn't overstay his unwelcome to begin with, given that he wasn't supposed to be down here anyways. But boy was Tony glad that Olivier had found a way. Fingers crossed he continued to do so. Then Tony would think about taking a good hard look at his own morality. Contemplate it at least.  
  
"Company?" He narrowed his eyes as he tried to discern the meaning from his brothers vague words. How exactly what he was going to have company, that he liked, in jail? Maybe it was best not to know, so he could claim ignorance just in case.  
  
"I know," Tony nodded once, using the motion to hide a swallow, before smirking. "I'm timing you. Try to get some sleep tonight before you drive your _girlfriend_ insane, alright?"  
  
Olivier only nodded, amused that Tony didn't pry further than the vague question. He couldn't imagine it would take too long for his brother to get his answer either -- she owed him.  
  
"Timing me?" Olivier asked indignant (or so his huffing up and puffed chest indicates as he strikes it). As the corner of his smile quivers up, he shakes his head at his impossible brother. "Don't do that."  
  
Like he has a say over what his brother does in here.   
  
"You'll make me want to cheat." Olivier joked. Ha, ha, ha. Point of fact, he has no trouble keeping the Vatican waiting himself if he has to stage a prison break first. The trouble was then his brother could never return to France. (And that might not matter to Tony, but Olivier had no intention of leaving his home -- nor of running from a fight. He did that once recently with Hans...and now he was being forced to leave his brother here too; that was more than bad enough.  
  
So he just winked, moving to slide the bars back with a wave of his hand, then letting them shut again. The officer spotted him from his perch instantly.  
  
He turned back to Tony, then put his hand through the bars, going to shake his hand. Like men, he thinks, except he feels fifteen and his brother looks six.  
  
"I'll time silently then," he quipped easily enough with a tilt of his head and a smirk, standing up as Olivier stood and moved to the bars. Those pesky metal bars were reinforced too, and he really needed to find out exactly who had supplied the muggles with magically reinforced materials because this was quite the kink in his 'if-all-else-fails' jail break plan.  
  
The bars slid open, his brother stepped out, and the bars slid shut again. Standing straighter, he took Olivier's hand, shaking it once and then after a second let it drop.  
  
"See you on the outside, fratello."   
  



	6. What Tops Your List?

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> (Of things I should apologize for? Murder? Arson? Kidnapping? Betraying my father? LOST's season finale? The Beatles breaking up?)

"Make that a scotch."  
  
Olivier changes the order with a flick of his fingers as he sees who walks through the door. The bumping, loud, red atmosphere couldn't cloak the attendance of Audrey Powell. Maybe he should order two. Except he wasn't supposed to be at a bar at all he'd been working all afternoon, in meetings with lawyers, and come home to find Stefanie gone. Yeah, adding Audrey on top of that definitely calls for a double.  
  
He clicks his finger again, never once taking his eyes off her (though if Stefanie danced nearer the dark brunette's neck, he might have to intervene), but when the second glass comes, he locks gaze with her and just points at it. An invitation to drink with him was a rare prize, yet somehow Olivier knows the only way she'll be flattered by it is if she has the opportunity to deny him.  
  
Of all the gin joints, in all the towns, in all the world.  
  
It figured that on her night off she would run into D'Grey. Her smoky eyes did a quick run down of her surroundings and soon enough found Olivier sitting at the bar. The brothers were like fleas on a dog, no matter how much you scratched, they always kept coming back. Even if technically she was in 'his' territory; all this time coming to France to help as Devin trained and she never enjoyed the Paris nightlife. So she put on her best dress (that she was promptly returning back to the store, tag still intact but currently disillusioned), her favorite heels, and headed to Pari and left the kids with Malik (after kicking Rinaldi's ass after he joked that she should at least make some money if she was looking like that).  
  
Eyebrows raising as Olivier asked her to join him via those frighteningly huge eyebrows the brothers used to silently communicate, Audrey quickly deliberated and then decided now she definitely needed a drink. And because she had no intention of paying for one on her own, she never did if she could help it, she had no intention on refusing a drink.  
  
Reaching him and sitting on the barstool beside him, she placed her clutch purse on the bar and asked more than greeted, "Aren't you supposed to be in the VIP area behind some red velvet ropes with three women at each side and a for-show bodyguard to bar the way?"  
  
She takes the glass of scotch and drinks a sip, surprised by how smooth it was. The only scotch they served at the bar she worked at, for those people who really wanted to get fancy at anniversaries, would be better used as jet engine fuel. That was the fanciest she had ever, and probably would ever, drink in her life.  
  
See, Olivier thinks, right there 'aren't you suppose to' that was where people got into such trouble with him. Actually, cara, he wants to respond immediately, I'm supposed to do as I like, precisely as I am. Flush still with success written in a small smile as he takes a sip, he decides that would be rude.  
  
"Aren't you supposed to be gloating?"  
  
If that was rude, Olivier didn't care. Rubbing excess off his lips (the sips were large today, but come on, his brother was rotting in a jail cell), Olivier chuckles once, whole head cocking to the side as his eyebrow and lip smack off.  
  
"Though if you are going to do that," his eyes sweep the floor once, checking how close Stefanie was to the two or three suitors she seemed to have attracted by the time Audrey crossed the bar, "I must say I applaud you taking the drink first. At least screw me from the front."  
  
"Crossed my mind," she admitted easily enough with a nod, the comment coming out as quick as his had. Then she shrugged and took another sip of the drink because it was way too delectable, and she was definitely going to struggle to pace herself to enjoy it. If the company ended up bothering her quicker than expected however, she would drink it, express a farewell and then find herself a new bar.  
  
"Oh, I'm very big on eye contact," she said matter of fact about screwing with him in front of his face instead of behind his back. No, she wasn't devious enough to do that, but shameless enough to gloat? Possibly. She thought about saying she was celebrating but that would be untrue, not did she want to give off the impression that she gave a shit.  
  
"Did you have something to say or is it just my -sparkling- personality that's gotten me this drink?"   
  
Of course it had. Audrey would be disappointing, as far as the spitfire self-righteous attitude, if she didn't back herself on the facts. The fact was she spent a month berating his brother for criminal justice and now here Tony was in jail. If she didn't think 'good', she was a fraud, and while Olivier thought Mademoiselle Powell was many things, fake wasn't one of them.  
  
Setting his glass down now with his smile easy (and eyes fixed apparently on the roaming crowd, but far more on the roaming brunettes Stef entertains), he chuckles once.  
  
"Oh, the latter to be sure, Audrey." His eyes shoot to gaze at her. "I might make no apology for being who I am, but I can appreciate that you don't either."  
  
His brow cocks, as if to say 'can't i?', and his hand falls back to the rim of his glass. Light, as his fingers trace it, "And besides. Once we had made eye contact, either one of us ignoring the other would just be rude, and would make quite the statement, colouring upon any of our further encounters. I'm glad to avoid that."  
  
Uh huh. Well, the heavy sarcasm was ignored by Olivier as he answered her, but she was almost, no she was certainly, relieved that there was nothing particular that D'Grey wished to reveal. It would certainly explain him offering the drink so as to ease her into it. Let's be honest though, he probably wasn't the type of man to ease into anything. But she was glad nonetheless, Audrey didn't think she could survive another D'Grey revelation.  
  
(Except she would, because that's what she did.)  
  
"I can respect that," she decided with a brief nod. Respect the fact that he knew and didn't apologize for who he was, while Antonio seemed to do nothing -but- apologize and pretend to be something that he wasn't. Only one of the many reasons she disliked him.  
  
"I disagree, it wouldn't have mattered shit. Not to me. A wave would have been enough, and we would have gone on with our evenings, though admittedly mine probably would have been bereft off fine scotch." She held herself back long enough, time for another sip.  
  
A wave might have been enough for her, Olivier thinks bemused, but it was certain as silver does to gold to snub most of his usual associates. Smirking at the thought as he thumbs the bottom of his glass, his other hand lifts, "Ah, see, well, --" at her last point, "I couldn't have you going on without at least trying this scotch then."  
  
It slips out, a tease light as anything (ignoring the fact he was mostly, entirely serious), for a brief instant it's as if they were friends of old enjoying a night out. Huh. D'Grey was used to carrying that facade out, even used to enjoying their company, but not with one who disdained of his brother.   
  
(Oh, who was he kidding? He carried that facade out for most of Tony's young-adult and teenage years).   
  
"It's new," he says easily, gesturing at it, "a bit woodsy for my personal taste, but I'm heartened to know you enjoy it. I'll order more, then."   
  
Audrey was new to Parisian nightlife, he realizes the tiniest bit amused: she knew clearly this was a magical haven, but he had to wonder.  
  
"This magic," he nods at her, "of yours. Did I hear you say you can sense if someone is--supernatural? Witch, vampire, wolf...?" Etc, his own personal favorite for obvious reasons?  
  
A purpose for everything it seemed. The scotch was proving to be good enough to be worth the interaction, and the interaction was proving to be harmless enough to not regret it. Then again, she didn't tend to regret most of her decisions. Regret was a very useless emotion; just suck it up and deal with it. That was her motto. No used crying over spilled rum (her alcoholic beverage of choice).  
  
Her eyebrows rose in amusement as he described the taste as woodsy. Funny, because she didn't really know how wood was supposed to taste like, but she did know the joke her brothers would have made at the comment. Audrey just didn't have the palette to discern specific tastes. After going on five years of drinking shitty liquor, her best distinction was distinguishing between the different kinds and then sorting them into two categories: shitty and not so shitty.  
  
"Keep it coming," she agreed, again, not one to deny a free drink or two or three. She guessed it depend on whether she was going to stay here for long. Audrey wanted to dance, but not many people were dancing, so she might split after the polite amount of time so that it wouldn't color any of their further interactions. If she had said that aloud, Audrey didn't think she would have managed a straight face.  
  
His question made her sober up from whatever light buzz and warmth the scotch had begun to offer. Had she said that to him or while he was in the room? She couldn't recall, but probably not. Antonio must have informed him then.  
  
"That's right," she nodded, explaining as factually as she could, "it's like picking up vibes. Every supernatural gives off a different one." She looked around the club. If someone was a certain distance away, she could feel it without looking at them, it would creep up her spine as a shiver, but with the loud and crowded atmosphere, they needed to be closer or she needed to concentrate.  
  
She turned back to Olivier, speaking out in a related note. "You sure bringing Stefanie here was a good idea?" Hearts beating past, ultimately matching the beats of the music through the speakers, and sweat dripping down necks like a tantalizing display, this was a disaster waiting to happen. She was only a newborn and unless she was the next Bella Swan, her control could only last so long.   
  
"Wouldn't want you to have to attempt to cover up another murder."   
  
Huh, Olivier cocks an eyebrow up. It was useless to pretend he wasn't amused (or surprised), but pleasantly so. Truthfully, he understood her hostility to his brother. (It doesn't forgive anything: if she insults Tony, especially right now, Olivier was liable to drive his hand through her chest--but she wasn't an idiot.) But he knew too that when people stuck and clung to passionate hatred, there was another reason, and he was all for smoothing the way. Particularly with fresh-poured twenty-eight year old scotch, as that, frankly my dear, is just damn good taste.  
  
After another sip (and signal to Sherry that she take Mademoiselle Powell's request as law to keep them coming), he refocuses, curious on to her perception.   
  
"Is that so." It was. Olivier cracks a smile, gesturing behind his glass with his pinky at two women. "So then you, are aware already that the man over there who looks like he's having the time of his life is actually the fish on the hook, being courted by two vampiresses." Oli nods his head the other way, "And the lone wolf in the corner. Atop the nearly all-magical crowd and, yes," he chuckles lightly, "Stefanie, of course." He pauses, as if an after thought, corner of his lips tugging down, "And me."  
  
And him, yes, but he looks back at her with barely the passing mention, too focused on his point. "And you still chose to walk in this bar tonight. I'm impressed, Audrey." The tip of his glass pretends to be a hat. "You do have an appreciation for those greyer sides yourself."  
  
As truthful as he was being, Olivier turns immediately back to Stefanie. The gulp he takes is his largest yet. I'm not her keeper, he might say. She made that clear, Tony would have said, but his brother would have been bitter and surly and guilty with it (and yearning, that too, for that which was -- but he didn't care, obviously not, no sir.)  
  
"I didn't bring her," He says instead, as why not tell the truth? Meeting Audrey's eyes, he shrugged. "She came herself. When I discovered the empty house I...." tracked her down in a hurry to ensure no one was dead, "...joined her on the night out discreetly."  
  
That was one of the distinctions between her and D'Grey: he was a flaunter and she wasn't. His tone clearly spoke that he didn't need 'her magic' to know what was going on in this bar, that he was already two steps ahead. Audrey herself never cared for chess, or showing off unnecessarily. What she did do was come prepared, guns fully loaded, and took out whoever was in her way. Courtesy calls weren't her style.  
  
The other option of course that he wasn't that big a tosser and that he was just reiterating for understanding's sake. Right, because politeness was always upheld for politeness' sake.  
  
Audrey followed where he pointed with her gaze, eyes narrowed into cat-like slits that were only helped along by her eyeliner. The two female vampires, the werewolf in the corner, Stefanie and himself. He might have considered himself an afterthought (unlikely), but he was on the list. No special place or privilege. Only a part of the dangers of tonight and she wouldn't have come out if she didn't know how to take care of herself.   
  
"Never said I didn't," her only protestations have been about her cousin being killed, not anything else the D'Greys decided to do with their time. Let them sell drugs, cater to those miserable souls like her mother because addiction and drugs weren't going away anytime soon. There would always be someone out there ready to supply the fancy of people's demands. They could kill puppies and trample kittens for all the fucks she gave, they just better not fuck with her family or friends because one more act against them and she'd snap.  
  
"Besides, I can't afford to be black and white."  
  
Audrey wasn't that surprised to hear Stefanie had chosen a night out herself, and now she thought better about Olivier's instincts. It was clear he didn't want anymore dead bodies on his watch. Anymore bodies he didn't order, that was.  
  
"To watch her slurping on other guys that vaguely resemble your incarcerated brother?" Audrey shrugged and finished the drink with another sip and waited for it to be filled. She had only taken one look but it was easy to notice their general attributes: dark hair, light eyes, and what she assumed to be olive-skinned but it was difficult to tell under the lights for those with normal senses.  
  
"Seen more fucked up shit."  
  
"Well, I have to give the guys tips at playing him," Olivier offers off-hand, swirling the burnt amber liquid in his gullet, eyes dilating in the red light. It was playful, if bitter, when he looks back with an off the cuff shoulder shrug, "if I don't want her to kill them, cara."  
  
It was still rolling around the back of his mind, the fact she hadn't said anything against her living in shades of grey. Audrey Powell, Auror's daughter, addict mother, a veritable litter of half-brothers, a shitty boss and undervalued at work -- with gifts at magic off the scales, arts even he'd never learned. His eyebrow cocks higher as he considers the irony. He'd ask her if she wanted to work for him; she'd be more appreciated, better paid, perfectly able. The pitch wrote itself (not the least bit undersold by the liquor he was supplying her with). Only, Audrey had made it damn clear she'd never walk in shades of -D'Grey.-   
  
He cocks his head, adding lightly yet, "You're right, the clean-up is just such a hassle." The quip rolls off a wet tongue, but his throat was dry. Yes, because he obviously let anyone walk in the city who didn't cross him personally.  
  
"Because," he looks at Audrey for a moment, "I obviously have the legal system so in my pocket, you know," he looks back, "apart from my incarcerated brother."  
  
There's a flare in his chest as he takes another swig, shaking his head, and he peels his gaze from Stefanie. The kiss she was giving the man she was dancing with was square on the jugular. It was obvious what came next, and if she did lose control, the pulsating red vibrations weren't going to help him keep it either.   
  
His heart skips a beat when he looks back and realizes Stefanie had spun the other way, let herself be ripped into the arms of suitor number two. Lovely, he thinks, he does have time for another drink then. Gaze back on Audrey, he bounced back to what he asked before, never one to be deterred.  
  
"The--vibes, you get. Is there a spell you cast, a daily meditation?" His smile was honest, if small, and explanation the same. "I've just--never had the opportunity to learn anything of the sort. It's fascinating, truly.  
  
And deadly."  
  
Easy. Tell them to be overconfident, facetious, inappropriate, childish, dirty, and wounded: voila, Antonio a la mode. Throw in a couple of movie references and if Stefanie closed her eyes she could pretend she was feeding off her not-boyfriend aside from the taste thing. Audrey threw another look in that direction, just in case. Supernatural tracking wasn't her only skill. And if she needed to be stopped in her tracks, Audrey was more than able.  
  
Turning back to Olivier, she restrained laughter as he continued his long, slightly bitter, report on his control over the system. She said nothing, smirked briefly, and took a sip of the scotch when it was refilled. That was just the way that things work out sometimes. All your skills, all your networking, all your hard work, sometimes it all just boiled down to luck. And Luck was only a lady when it suited her to be.  
  
"Now that I've controlled it, yes. More meditation than spell. It's an extension of magic, like feelers in the air. Magic responds to magic." She was happy to explain to someone that was genuinely curious and teach them in ways she'd never been taught but instead had to learn herself. And if they weren't judgmental pricks crossing their fingers to ward off satan, she was glad to explain as well.   
  
"Please," she scoffed briefly and pointed out with a smirk, "walking out of your front door on the wrong day can be deadly too. But I suppose you're right," she allowed, "there's always a risk."  
  
There was a look, just for a moment, on Audrey's face that Olivier has a strange recollection. Ironic, actually, that when he places it he coughs down the rest of his swallow. That's what he got for swishing it around and around contemplating Stef, the woman (ish) who defies being labeled. Coughing, even on the bitters, was what you do with a quick inhale of pepper -- and it was Pepper he'd thought of.  
  
That was the look she got when she feigned a demonstration, that some witches could fell vampires with only a glance. Was Audrey so gifted? He looked between Stefanie and Audrey with a quick darting glance trying to discern, see beneath the iron. The trouble was he had no desire to be cold: the only thing known that would make iron brittle to his pressure. So he swallows back asking. Stefanie was swinging back and forth with the latter, her hand in the air, tangling, turning, twisting as if well-aware of the gazes on her - and that they weren't all her lookalike admirers. (Does she know they mildly resemble his brother? It was on purpose, but was she aware of it - that was the more pertinent question.)   
  
Irregardless, if she stepped too far, he'd get his answer on Audrey's ability without applying pressure. Well. To *Audrey*, that was. He hmms under his breath, contemplating idly on trigger factors and how quickly Stefanie would tip (when she was certainly there to feed in the first place, he likely wouldn't need to bother). Lifting a hand to his neck as he thinks, he hasn't looked away from Audrey now, the forefront of his mind fascinated and intrigued with the possibilities. He speaks after a nod.  
  
"Yes, I have heard life is dangerous." Olivier couldn't help the tiny sarcasm; it was in his D.N.A, and it was one of the least harmful things that was, he gave no qualms about it. "But I wasn't offering a caution so much as...an admiration. I have always favored playing with fire."   
  
He winks, smirk smug as he flicks his gaze to his glass and back. Another sip down his throat, and he turns towards the bar, folding his hands over it to lean a little closer to her, pushing her new glass towards her as well.  
  
Indeed, Audrey thinks. Life was dangerous even for the lucky bastards born into wealth, it was just a different kind of danger. And Olivier had a unique situation of having a vampire mob boss for a father. That life was bound to be full of dangers, until he had learned how to be dangerous himself. It was hard to picture a predator on top having fear, even though it was no doubt present. There was always a bigger fish in the water, a badder monster lurking in the shadows. And someone was already proving that D'Grey was far from invincible. That kind of knowledge could weigh on a person; to know they were as vulnerable like the rest of them, but it was always a necessary lesson to learn.  
  
"So I have your admiration on two things already," she noted after a chuckle. If she was supposed to feel flattered, she wasn't, but who knows? Third time tended to be the charm.  
  
Audrey had Olivier's interest that was true, just not the interest she was hoping to find tonight. The 'lone wolf' in the corner kept eyeing her though, and he was all kinds of yummy. The full moon had already passed too. She'd go over to say hi after she was done talking here.  
  
"Two already?" The fast quip is all too honest, but his amusement ranges far beyond that. His admiration had caused him to put aside, if only momentarily,  the fact she was commenting so blithely on his brother. Especially, as it would be difficult (Dammit Antonio) to meld having hurt her with both getting Tony out, and ... not having his brother hate him.   
  
"I wouldn't read too much into it." The remark was dry, and despite the air of power that usually hovers over his presence, it seems almost true as he clasps palms to hang over the edge.   
  
"After all, you can't really believe anything I say."  
  
If that sentence could turn truth to a knife, he'd be bleeding now. (But then, he'd probably drink it all right back up again, swallow until he couldn't breathe).   
  
"I never do," she admitted genuinely, managing to keep the smirk on her face from being bitter. Doing that only meant she had expectations of people, and that was reserved for only a few in her life. Nor did she believe anything he said that she couldn't prove. Besides, it wasn't the time or place for bitterness, and the drink was too smooth to be in an entirely bad mood. The night was only going to get better from here, she would make sure of that.  
  
"The meditation." His interest was more than piqued. "Is it possible to learn? I understand the rune on Devin's hand would have been meaningless had the Hunter abilities not already been in his blood, and I have no doubt talent would vary on this branch of magic the same as any. More, actually, considering it's clear rarity.  
  
But this can be learned? I can only imagine sensing ones abilities is the beginning of...well," he opens his hands without lifting from the cherry-wood bar, "potential limitless."   
  
The Italian accent peaked abruptly over his final words.   
  
She contemplated momentarily and then answered after a shrug, "I don't see why not. It's easier for me, as I believe I was born with an 'excess' of magic you might say." Magic on crack, crazy and all over the place and destructive. Which fit because her mother had been on crack throughout the entire pregnancy.  
  
"It's too much for my body, so it makes it easier transferring it outside. But it should work the same, just more difficult possibly." Then again, Audrey was willing to bet it wouldn't be as difficult for D'Grey as any others because he most probably was born out of dark magic. The thought of him potentially limitless however was one that would have left any one wary though.  
  
After another sip of her new drink she settled it down on the bar and clarified, "If this is a precursor to asking me to tutor you, the answer is no."  
  
Nodding absently, as if he wasn't listening hard to every individual word, as if Olivier wasn't committing this to absolute memory, he suddenly chuckles. It's too loud in his ears. (Like everything is.)   
  
"Oh, no." He waves off her concern, eyebrows dancing as he understands: she didn't want to be responsible for him moving up on his previous list of dangers in the bar (that he owns).   
  
"I don't need any more tutors, Audrey. They don't have the best track record with me."   
  
His father was dead, and Chantal would kill Tony if she knew (which, if he'd learned his history lesson, meant that eventually Tony would kill Chantal). Either way, he refrains from hiring anyone else to tell him what to do. Olivier D'Grey had always been a perfect student. He learned all the wrong things (apparently), but no one could accuse him of doing it badly, or effortlessly. At least there was that.   
  
(Except Tony being incarcerated, but it wasn't Tony didn't love being his one exception in every other rule.)  
  
"Yes, I can imagine people more knowledgeable than you telling you what to do isn't exactly a recipe for success," she took a sip of her drink, still trying to see if she picked up that 'woodsy' taste that he mentioned, but the more she drank, the more her tongue went numb with the buzz. Audrey wasn't tiny but she was lean, so her tolerance wasn't that great.  
  
"Oh, it isn't," he allows her fairly, even if he undermines his point as he quips with the air of one lighting a bulb with his finger-tip and a wave, "No, I only let those less intelligent than me tell me what to do. For my ego's sake, obviously."   
  
"Obviously," she repeated in amusement that was only thinly-veiled. Olivier D'Grey might be a supremacist prick, but at least he had a good sense of humor. Humor was subjective however, and as no one had ever once characterized Audrey as funny, it wasn't a stretch to assume Olivier wasn't funny to most people either.  
  
Then he takes a sip of his glass, smirk alight with honesty. Running his hand back through his hair as he shakes it again, he hasn't stopped smiling at her yet.  
  
"Besides, I would think you have enough on your plate already, and it appears I'm already keeping you from one admirer." He cocks his head towards the wolf, not lifting his eyes from Audrey, smirk light. "I'm merely curious. Habit of mine, I apologize, I am a bit -- uh," he chuckles under his breath, "...voracious."   
  
Enough on her plate was an understatement, but she made it work and she didn't want anyone to think that she couldn't handle. She could handle her own shit, her family's shit, her friends' shit, and any other shit the world wanted to throw her way. Nothing had been too much for her before, and it wasn't going to start now.  
  
"That's fine," she began after a heavy chuckle at his use of the word voracious, "but I assume that of the list of things you should apologize for, your curiosity is bringing up the back end."   
  
"See, now, that depends." Contrary soul, was he born, was he ever. (Besides, preaching to the choir got old, fast.) "On who defines 'should.' I imagine of the things I could apologize for, everybody has their favorite."  
  
That was too true.  
  
"But, as you don't mind my curiosity. What's yours?" He cocks an eyebrow at her, forgetting Stef for the first time since he had walked into the bar.   
  
"Of those great many things you would have me apologize for, genuinely, what tops your list, Audrey?"   
  
His question caused her to lift her eyebrows once again and put the drink down, eyeing him with new precision. Speaking of dangerous things, this could prove to be the most dangerous endeavor she undertook tonight, and that was including fucking the werewolf in the corner. Which was of course exactly why she had to do it. Her painted lips pursed as she considered it, and leaned closer once she had decided.  
  
"I'd have you apologize for putting Antonio in a position where he had to choose between my cousin and you." Not a creative choice, by all means it what was exactly what he expected, but it was the truth and she had to say it.  
  
"Because he'll always choose you. And every time he does, someone else pays the price." Oh, was that unfair to pin on him? After all, it was Antonio's will, his choices, not Oliviers'. Which is precisely why it was on the top of her list.  
  
Audrey has so much life in her eyes as she answers him, he would have thought it ironic had that not been extremely poor taste. Really, it shouldn't matter to him if she found it such, but it doesn't stop his shoulders from tensing at the thought. It doesn't stop the snap in his bone when his thumb hits the crystal, strikes until the amber liquid shakes inside, dancing to an imaginary bass. Olivier is dangerously still for a moment, but he thinks he feels a faint streak of pride rising in his chest (aren't we a pair?), and he can't help the slow smile that crosses his lips.  
  
"That tops the list?" He asks, echoing for dramatic effect (read: stalling).   
  
"Well you haven't actually done anything to me, what else would I have you apologize for?" She shrugs, her eyes focused on watching him ponder and process what she had just said. She thought he might have broken the glass if he continued to tap it so hard. His shoulders and arms tended even as he smirked, even as he chuckled and Audrey knew then she had done too well. Olivier must have prepare himself, however, or why ask a question you didn't want the anwer to? Audrey never backed down or softened up, not for anybody.  
  
She's right. Tony will choose him. (Olivier didn't choose Tony when they were seventeen). Someone else will pay the price. (It was Tony's pattern. He chose Olivier, Dad died. He chose Eliza, Emily died. Oh, and when he chose Stefanie, Marcel died.) So, yes, Audrey was right.  
  
That wasn't why he smiles. (Because that would be enough to make him rip his own heart out with his teeth; if he gave that to his brother, maybe he'd believe he loved him then.)  
  
"Putting him in the position to choose," Olivier muses under his breath, and he has to take a sip first.   
  
Yes, putting him in the position to choose. These brothers had a unhealthy dependency problem and Antonio would choose his brother over the world, definitely over doing the right thing, and most likely over himself. Gotta love free will.  
  
Then his gaze flicks back to Audrey, speaking as he sets the glass back down.  
  
"Well, then, Audrey, it seems our lists might be a match." His mouth twists up, and he shrugs a shoulder back at her. Now he was joking, so hard it hurt in his teeth.   
  
His eyes finally returned to hers after a drink, his response making her smirk and grab her own glass. Matching lists, that was as funny as it was sad, which only made it funnier to her. Again, humor was entirely subjective.  
  
"The problem seems to be my brother's too much like me. Doesn't do well with tutors or people more knowledgable on a matter than him, telling him what he can't do."  
  
"Then heaven help us all," she shook her head and took a longer sip now, exhaling as she brought the glass down, "because if you can't stop your brother from damning people around him, then who will?."  
  
Well, if the time came, she'd be happy to give it a shot.  
  
"You know the funny thing about that." Olivier prods his own nose (pretends he doesn't think of how his brother does that all the time), and then folds his hands right back off the edge, "Is it sounds like it's the kind of thing one just has to do themselves."   
  
Oh, gasp, what? He runs his thumb around the rim of the glass, quick as a flash. D'Grey, advocating free will? How novel. And not the kind that Tony was writing in his book. Except anything else he was going to say on the matter was rudely, abruptly --   
  
"Oh, goddammit."   
  
Interrupted. Olivier turned, hearing the minute thump of a door shutting and realizing Stefanie wasn't on the dance floor...and neither were either suitor. At least it wasn't the ladies (ha) room, but the storage room. Lifting off the counter at once, he nods to Sherry, who lifts the smooth wood until it goes against it's grain, and he darts behind the bar heading there himself.   
  
(Audrey wasn't forgotten; he just wanted to see if she was going to come, without his apparent urging.)  
  
"No matter how many get killed in the process of his self discovery?" Her eyebrows sky-rocketed as she waited for the response that never came as Olivier cursed, his eyes leaving hers to look at the dance floor. Audrey had to turn in her stool to be able to see, but rather than finding the blonde woman attached like a leech to a civilian's neck, instead she found she had disappeared. Well, at least there was such a thing as being discreet.  
  
Before she even turned back, Olivier stood and was walking past her without a second look or word, following Stefanie through the dance floor and to a back door. Audrey pursed her lips together and then turned forward again, groaning under her breath, counting to five, and finishing the rest of her drink in a single gulp. Audrey took her clutch purse and slid off the stool as she followed. Audrey didn't trust Olivier, she probably never would, but she could admit that he was capable enough to handle Stefanie. But she couldn't expect him to make those two men his priority, and Audrey felt like someone should.  
  
She knew exactly what was going on the top of the list of things Stefanie should apologize for: interfering with the possibility of a good lay tonight.  
  
Her heels didn't make a sound by the time it reached her ears through the music, but they clacked with every step nevertheless as she crossed the dance floor and headed through the same door, surprised to find it a storage room instead of a back alley, but the surprise was quickly forgotten in favor of another visual.  
  
They do make quite a pretty picture; the twin brunettes held against a wall of glassware, shivering in their wood casket, Stefanie at their throats, one in hand, the other by fang. Not a drop of blood seems to stain their olive skin -- (Stefanie heard them enter, and he knows she senses two new predators) -- but the taste of the young men's skin was thick in the air. There was salt, heady cigarette smoke, bourbon and desperation (she got that part right anyway) and the strength makes him taste his tongue, sucking hard to keep himself from asking for a bite to eat.   
  
Audrey was already stepping forward, but Olivier hesitates at the threshold, looking straight on the university students. There was no fear in their hazy eyes. Did she do that, or were the boys that naive? Both, probably. Stefanie could have them gripped more tightly, of course, chained them down and fettered their thoughts as well -- but that wouldn't geld with the fantasy.  
  
"I don't recall asking for an audience."   
  
Scarlet on her tongue, Stefanie's mouth feels sparked with energy, tingly and a little numb, drawing more, drinking quickly. Strength infuses in her body, feeds her hunger, intoxicates and drugs. While they respond in kind, writhing in a kind of mechanical pleasure, the sudden entrance behind her makes her head jerk. She bites down, hard, turns her head and buries shut eyes in a patch of *Tony's neck.  
  
(They don't get to see her cry.)  
  
"Stefanie," Olivier chides when he finds his voice, as if he were speaking to a young girl. Stefanie was showing off, he understands -- but the trouble was, he doesn't see any urge to stop. The first man seems not to support his own weight as she nuzzles at his neck, murmuring slowly - some German endearment he doesn't know.   
  
"Stef, you're going to kill him."   
  
The deep animal sound of anger and frustration that answers him only makes him warier, but Stefanie only squeezed the second man's throat once, then dropped it -- freeing his voice.  
  
"Woah, wha- get out- "  
  
Oh, for heavens sakes. Unsure of if they were talking to Audrey or himself, he didn't care. Olivier rolls his eyes. At least he knew it was consensual.    
  
(But Tony always was.)  
  
The two men had agreed to this. Not one to particularly care about other people's fetishes, she almost walked right back out again. If they were stupid enough to agree, to put their life in a newborn vampire's hands, then let them be saddled with the consequences. But she didn't, and she wouldn't have, especially as even the interruption wasn't enough to tear Stefanie away from the guy's throat.  
  
Olivier warned once, and then warned again, but she kept drinking and the man looked pale. If his brother, untouched and protesting, was any indication of what color he had been before, then he was dangerously close to passing out. She couldn't wait for Stefanie to make that decision herself, like Olivier had just said some choices needed to be done. 'Free will' wasn't going to kill anybody else on her watch.  
  
Audrey didn't take another step forward, she didn't even make a sound. Olivier's warnings seemed plenty enough as far as verbal decisions went. Knowing that throwing her across the room could run the risk of her fangs ripping across the man's neck and make him finish bleeding out to death right there, Audrey opted for another tactic.  
  
Narrowing her eyes in focus, she directed her magic to Stefanie's brain, like tiny needles to burst her blood vessels in the head. A vampire healed a burst vein easily, so she did it over, and over, and over again, repeatedly. The pain should be distraction enough to make her stop.  
  
It's one of this slow-building, grating screams that burns on the way out and echoes, reverberates in the back of Olivier's throat as Stefanie peels back to let loose. Eyes flipping to Audrey, who hadn't bothered with a simple 'stop' or even 'hi there' or whatever it was that might pass for common courtesy before you rip into someone's skull. It breaks whatever hypnotic hold Stef has on the drunk Tonys in a flash; one falls, the other scampers. Olivier just turns, lets the boy disappear. The wounds on his neck prick that pulse in his jaw, sparks a tingle in gums thirsty. Balling his hands right up to keep from stopping him, this time it was easy.  
  
The yell Stefanie is still emitting sounds like if he did join in, Audrey was liable to tear his head off.   
  
Stefanie's knees crack against the granite floor, her hands curling, scratching into a screwed up temple, yanking on yellow hair and moaning. Pink pinpricks appear on her forehead as she digs in her own skin. Then scarlet. Then white, shiny and smooth as they sew shut as vampires do.   
  
Olivier shivers once when his eyes flip back to Audrey. Her pupils were dilated, her jaw stretched thin; she looks like a warrior straight from the Amazon, except she doesn't need spears. Just her bare hands. Impressed, there's a note of genuine fear in his gaze before he snaps to action.   
  
(There's no need for Audrey to know why it was he could move in a blink either. Olivier liked his head *on*, thank you very much.)  
  
Hauling the boy up, he holds his hand over the throbbing bites and mutters the spell to close the wound. Oh, heavens Stefanie. (Are you this mad at my brother?). Fixing the man's tie for him (he even buttons his coat), Olivier burns his own gaze into the hazy, unfocused eyes, not bothering to pause or breathe before he's muttering, "You weren't back here. You never saw us. You partied too hard tonight, and are going straight home to bed."  
  
Then he threw the boy away. The similarity was making him sick - or maybe that was the look on her face when Stefanie stops screaming. Betrayal and rage echo in her words, but at least she's not stupid enough to jump Audrey next. Eyes glinting, she's staggered back to her feet and has balled fists herself.  
  
"I *wasn't* going to kill either one of them, Audrey."  
  
Once Stefanie was on the floor, the two men neglected, Audrey stopped. She breathed in suddenly, to fill her lungs again and then loosened her jaw. She saw the men scamper out the door from the corner of her eye, but didn't move from her spot. Audrey looked between Stefanie on the floor and Olivier who looked back at her again, his face a mixture of admiration and wariness. The third time was the charm then.  
  
"Can't be too careful," she spoke as she loosened her grip around her clutch bag. The use of that magic had done as much as drinking those two glasses of the woodsy scotch had, but it went away much quicker. The use of it was addicting, but it was just another thing under Audrey's belt that she had handled.  
  
"I'm sorry," she apologized genuinely, "but I wasn't going to take that chance." Because contrary to popular opinion, a human died long before she would have gotten to the last pint, and every person was different. Two more seconds would have been too much, what Olivier should have done was make sure to give that boy a replenishing potion. One dizzy stumble, one wrong hit on the head, and it was over. She'd find the guy afterward.  
  
"I'd say so," Stefanie rubs over her unfocused, crimson eyes, harsh and hard. "The bloody hell that was, it wasn't careful."   
  
Her words were hot, but wary. Olivier watches her in a similar fashion; Stef wasn't exactly known to be a model of restraint whatever it was she says now. Eyes narrow, he finally takes a step closer to her, noting with a bit of concern that she wasn't exactly - steady on her feet.  
  
"Stef--"  
  
"I'm fine," she snaps it, hand slapping Olivier's away. Sigh. Remind him to have a word with his brother about the women he -- right, Tony'd just be as irritated. Still, which of them was it that truly needed to be told not to bring strays home?   
  
"You're not fine." He snaps back, but keeps his hand up. For a strange reason, he had the feeling he was outnumbered. Eyes darting to Audrey, he had to ask (even though he was pretty damn sure he knew, because Pepper had explained it once or twice.)   
  
"What *was* that?"


	7. Maybe It's Maybelline?

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> (It's not charity work, it's a business transaction.)

"Hey. Hey! What did I tell you? No killing your brothers in the house, take it outside," Audrey took a pair of scissors out of Nora's hands as she ran by, "and wear a coat!"

Audrey exhaled, throwing the rag she'd been cleaning the kitchen with in the sink and taking her gloves off with a snap, throwing them in the trash before she collapsed on one of the chairs in their dining area. Laying her head back and closing her eyes, she prayed for a minute, just a few moments, of blissful silence. 

A door slammed open and then shut in the front room, a small whimper leaving Audrey's mouth before she pointed at whoever had just come in with a finger, not bothering to open her eyes just yet. Rather than saying anything, she shook her finger from left to right, pointed to the general direction of that person's shoes, and then with a pointed thumb gestured for him, it wasn't Nora the footsteps were too heavy, to take them off. Audrey had just cleaned that floor, and it was going to stay clean for a few more hours at least. Hearing the shuffle of someone undoing their shoelaces, Audrey could tell that the message was received, being listened to, and without a fuss being made. There was only one sibling that was that helpful.

"Bad day?" Audrey asked, referring to the door that had been slammed so unceremoniously. She opened her eyes finally, and then was surprised to find that Malik's clothes were stained through with what looked like coffee. He was shrugging off his tie now, or trying to, he only succeeded in tightening it around his neck. Audrey stood, stepping forward and then slapping his hand away not so gently.

"Bloody hell, Mal, what happened?" Audrey asked after she finally taken off his tie and tossed it in the laundry basket in the corner.

"Nessie dumped me," he answered sullenly, and Audrey refrained from scoffing. Her brother and his girlfriend broke up at least once every three weeks, though granted, she had never thrown anything at him before. So either she really was as crazy as Audrey thought she was, a possibility, one she was hoping for, or Malik had actually done something that was worth dumping over instead of the usual paying more attention to his work and family over her. Audrey understood perfectly that some women wanted to be the first thing in a man's life, more power to them, but hadn't Malik already proven where his loyalties lied? That wasn't going to bloody change because some cow came waltzing in-

Malik prodded her forehead, right between her eyebrows, "Stop cursing at her in your mind. You might accidentally send an army of locusts on her."

"It wouldn't be accidentally," Audrey answered amicably, a wide grin on her face before she patted his shoulder, "leave your clothes here, I'll get them washed for you."

Audrey and Malik had both agreed last year that they wouldn't use magic unfairly with their other siblings. Alton and Rinaldi were normal and had to do chores without magic, so Malik and her did the same. Granted, it didn't mean she didn't use a little help every now and again. For most things, however, they did it manually. Besides, the simpler the spell, the more likely Audrey was to have it blow up in her face. Once when she was younger, she tried casting a spell for light and nearly ended up blinding herself. It was under much better control now, but Audrey tended to leave her magic usage for big jobs. Like keeping the house running whenever the electric and water company cut them off.

Malik headed back to his room with a grumble that he was going to take a nap (Audrey wanted to kill him, -she- wanted that nap), while Audrey started putting the load in the washer. The door opened and shut three times as she worked, once at the front door and then twice at the back door right behind her, Alton and Rinaldi ignoring her screams that she had just cleaned and that they would wake up the baby, oh right and little Terrance too. They ran up the stairs, their feet stomping loudly as a covered-in-melting-snow Nora ran after them with a look of murder in her eyes. Audrey gave up, closing the washer door and then starting it up before walking into the living room and falling on the couch. She hadn't buried her face in the cushions for more than half a minute when the doorbell rang.

Standing with a disgruntled groan, she walked to the door, throwing it open with an annoyed, "What?"

"And this is why I came with gifts," Irene Burns held a box of pastries in one hand and a cardboard tray with coffee on the other. Too surprised at first to say anything, Audrey just stared at her in silence, torn between asking her what she wanted and declining it before she even asked. If the intentions were visible on her face, Irene either seemed not to notice, or not to care. With a bright smile on her face that was only accentuated by her bright bubblegum pink lip color and aquamarine color eye shadow, she wiggled the treats in front of her again and then started stepping forward with the question, "Can I come in?" Obviously, the question was made void given that she seemed intent on entering whether or not the answer was fuck off and it very nearly was. Audrey was not in the mood to attend to a princess at the moment.

"Sure," she answered dryly after Irene walked in and closed the door after her. Audrey stayed back for a moment, watching Irene take her house in. She seemed not to be bothered by it even if it was obvious that Irene stuck out like a sore thumb.

"Please don't tell me you took the underground?," Audrey asked, wincing at the thought of Irene having to sit in a dirty cart only to get into a dirty bus in her precious fur coat to even reach this neighborhood. It was a miracle she hadn't been assaulted on her way to the front door. Audrey gave her a quick inspection; aside from the coat and shoes, she didn't seem to have anything with value on her. No jewelry, not even a purse, which Audrey guessed she was feeling a little lost without. Still, better than being mugged. 

Thankfully it was also the middle of the day, but God knew those little shitheads from the gang were always circulating.

"No, I grabbed a taxi," Irene explained cheerfully, walking into the kitchen and setting the coffee and the pastries on the kitchen counter, clapping her hands together as she turned around to face Audrey. Audrey leaned against the opposing kitchen counter, hands holding onto the edge behind her. At school, Irene was regarded one of the 'popular' girls by almost everyone except, of course, the snakes who frequently made a habit of pretending any other team besides theirs didn't exist. Audrey never participated in house feuds; she was mostly disinterested in football, and was never talented in the areas of magic that were actually taught. Audrey didn't make any rivalries with other people, not even their 'sworn enemy' and she didn't put in any effort to create memorable friendships or alliances either.

Irene belonged in the second group. She made it her personal mission to know as many students from different houses and years as she could. Self-described 'supplier', if anyone wanted some booze to get real knackered, Irene was the go-to-girl, even at twelve years old. She supplied it free of charge, and never heard a word of anyone paying her back, so long as she was invited to the party too. It had bothered Audrey when she was younger that Irene had access to that amount of money and chose to spend it on underage drinking and seasonal fashion that came and went. It took her a few years to realize that it didn't make Irene a bad person, it just made her naive to the way the real world worked. And if she managed to avoid it, protected by her wealth and her father's title then all the better for her. The last few months however made it clear that Irene hadn't been spared from the cruelty of life. She was still sodding rich though, so if you were going to be fucked over, better to be wealthy.

"Coffee?," Irene offered holding out a cup to her, "Dillon told me you work nights, figured you might need one about now. He's the one who told me where you lived, by the way."  
Audrey took the coffee from her with a brief smile and then took a sip, surprised to realize it was a peppermint mocha; she could taste the triple-shot of espresso as she sipped from it. Eyebrows raising in question, she found it answered before she could ask it aloud.

"And Rory told me about your favorite coffee."

"You came prepared," Audrey uncapped the cup and cooled the coffee with a simple blow. Now at perfect temperature, Audrey sipped without fear of burning her tongue or the roof of her mouth.

"Didn't one of them express concern at you coming here alone?" Audrey asked after her sip, being warmed immediately. She could almost forgive being interrupted from her catnap by how delicious this cup of coffee was. Audrey didn't indulge frequently in coffee because she didn't want to rely on it just to wake up and stay awake, but when she did it was a slice of heaven, only better because there was no God around for miles.

"Yes until I promptly reminded them that if I could take on Death Eaters, a few hoodies should be no problem. I'm not entirely defenseless, you know." Never mind of course that Irene had been assaulted a year ago while walking back alone from a bar. 

Audrey smiled, "Sorry, I was too busy trying not to laugh at 'hoodies'." Posh girls, honestly. Irene waved her hand around dismissively, completely unbothered as she added, "you know what I mean."

Audrey chucked and then set aside the coffee before asking, "Why are you here, Irene?"

Irene now hesitated, looking down at her heels. Audrey didn't push her, even if she wanted this to be relatively quick and instead took another sip of her coffee. Before Irene managed to get the words out of her mouth however, her siblings ceased being decent human beings and descended down the stairs like a wilderbeest stampede. Nora was hitting her brother repeatedly with the cricket paddle; another failed hobby of Malik's from when he was a teenager. Audrey stepped forward, grabbing the paddle out of her hand and then hitting the twins with it once more before pointing at them with it.

"Stop antagonizing your sister already you lazy sots, and go do your coursework!"

"Who's the snowbunny?," Alton asked, leaning sideways and grinning at Irene, nodding at her once.

"So out of your league, Alton," Rinaldi piped up after a scoff. He chose instead to focus on the boxes and the coffee and with a grin exclaimed, "Food!"

"Yeah, help yourselves!," Irene instructed with a smile, "I'm Irene Burns, pleased to meet you."

Audrey sighed, noticed her brothers and sister were flocking to the donuts and the pastries to care and then quickly introduced them with her finger, "Irene these are my siblings: Nora, Alton, and Rinaldi." They all waved with hands full of donuts as Audrey looked behind her shoulder as Terrance began to cry. About to excuse herself to go try and put him back to his nap, Terrance was brought to her by a grumpy Malik in nothing but his sleeping trousers, never mind it was four in the afternoon. He handed Terrance to Audrey without a second word and started to go up the stairs without a second look to Irene.

Audrey turned back, "That was Malik, he got dumped, excuse him, and this is Terrance," she bounced him up and down. Terrance seemed determined to be a big baby sometimes. Already three years old, and he was still crying as if he was six months. When Audrey was three years old...actually never mind, Terrance should be a baby for much longer, much much longer. She squeezed him tighter and then kissed his forehead as her other siblings slipped upstairs again after thanking Irene for the food and coffee (and telling her she was welcome here anytime, which meant she was free to bring food by anytime).

"Sorry about that," Audrey apologized with no real remorse; it was her home after all, and Irene hadn't been invited over and this was who they were. It was a miracle they had all been clothed actually, but the winter months insured that no one ever came down in their underwear, herself included. 

"It's no trouble. I can hold him, if you want. Guaranteed I can make him fall asleep," Irene promised and then sighed, "it's a curse actually."

"It's fine, I got him."

"I insist, look," Irene stepped forward and practically snatched Terrance from her arms. Transferring him to her right hip, she smiled and introduced herself to Terrance who was surprised enough by the stranger holding him that he stopped crying immediately. Audrey picked up her coffee cup again and took a sip, watching Irene over the rim of the cup.

"Terrance? You are so handsome, Terrance! Can I call you Terry? You can be my Terry-Bear!" Irene teased, kissing the baby's nose as she rocked on her toes. An impressive feat for someone wearing platform heels. Irene turned back to Audrey and then shrugged as Terrance began to lay his head on her chest and stuck a thumb in his mouth, preparing to go back to sleep.

"Traitor," Audrey murmured with a chuckle as she watched him, "I knew he liked blondes. His sitter's also blonde, though admittedly the kind that comes from the bottle."

Irene giggled, "He's a cutie. Besides, they call them dirty pillows for a reason." Irene giggled again and then walked back to stand in front of Audrey, leaning against the kitchen counter again.

"So why do you call it a curse?" Audrey asked with curiosity. It was an odd way to put it.

Irene sighs and with a smile still, explains, "I don't want to be a mother. And I know, I'm only sixteen, that could always change but the thought of another human growing inside of me and my vagina expanding four times as large- no, I don't want to be a mother, I don't want to raise kids, I don't even know if I want to get married but for some reason I am great with children. They love me." Irene shrugged, "a curse. Trying to rein me in! Well, I shan't allow it!" Irene turns her nose up before immediately smiling again, this time with some abash.

"Anyways, that's not why I'm here."

"Still waiting on you, Irene," Audrey nods at her for her to explain.

"Okay," Irene exhaled, "so Nadia's been telling me all that you've been doing for Devin. Just between us, I think she feels a little threatened because -she- can't do anything about it, and it doesn't help that you are gorgeous. Of course, Devin is a love-sick puppy who doesn't even look the other way and that is a rare trait to find in a guy, even if I don't particularly want it because let's face it, I look. Looking's not bad! It's healthy, you can look all you want and I can look all I want but we are touching each other, not other people- and by we, I don't mean you and me, unless you'd be into that? A threesome is-"

Audrey had been trying her best not to interrupt but that was spiraling down out of topic, "Irene, what were you trying to say-"

"Helping Devin, right! Damn girl, if half of the things I've heard are true- I mean did you really give Stefanie the migraine from hell?" The last question, Irene dropped her voice to a whisper, as if it were something dark and shameful.

"Something like that, yeah," Audrey nodded, "she was going to kill those two men."

"Debatable, but not why I'm here. I want you to teach me how to do it."

Audrey had to process that for a little longer before she managed a chuckle and licked her lips before she crossed her arms in front of her chest, "I'm sorry what?"

"Teach me! Listen, one of my best friends is a Seer, the other a werewolf, another a Hunter, one that was a Death Eater, for two weeks but still, a friend who's a newborn vampire, one that is one of two vampire hybrids alive in the world, not to mention my best friend's boyfriend who is also my friend is a puppy werewolf, and then there's me!" Irene huffed and looked at Terrance suddenly and then whispered, "Poor little human me! Everybody's got super powers and how is that fair? I'm a witch! A," she brought her hand up to cover one of Terrance's ears which made Audrey smile briefly, "fucking witch and what can I do? Well I can levitate people, send them flying backwards oh but first, I need my wand! I need to say the spell aloud! I'm suddenly in a world where everyone's got plus 75 handicap points and I'm the fucking level three Metapod with the only ability I have being 'harden'!"

Audrey felt for Irene. Apparently there was some things money couldn't buy. Pursing her lips, Audrey first took a sleeping Terrance from Irene's arms and headed to the living room to put him down on the couch. Coming back into the kitchen, Audrey put her fingers together in front of her lap and exhaled before she started.

"Irene, I can't. I'm already helping Devin out, I'm working two jobs, I'm taking care of these kids, I just can't...I'm sorry. Even if I could, this magic, it isn't just something I can teach, Irene. I was born with this."

"Maybe, or maybe it's Maybelline! And if it's Maybelline Magic, then I can buy it."

"Buy it?" Audrey asked, her eyebrows rising.

"Tutor me," Irene asked, taking a step closer, "please. I will pay you."

"Irene," Audrey sighed, "I can't take your money."

"Why not?"

"Because, I don't need your help or your charity-"

"It's not charity, Audrey! You would be doing me a service, it is a business transaction. You said it yourself, you're busy, and your time is money and that's money I'm willing to pay for you. Name your price."

"Irene," Audrey tried to reason, but she could see the girl was determined.

"Audrey, I am desperate here okay? I'm not asking you for much. I just need to know how to witchy migraine vampires and do whatever it is you do to werewolves, because let me tell you I am d-u-n DONE with being pushed up against walls unless it's my boyfriend."

Audrey could see the desperation clearly enough. Biting her lower lip, Audrey looked her up and down. 

"15 quid an hour," Audrey offered.

"Honey, please," Irene scoffed, "add a zero."

Audrey narrowed her eyes and then shook her head. Just the thought of that much money made Audrey wary. The last time she had made that much in one hour, she'd pawned off an engagement ring for quick money so she could afford the mortage after their savings had been stolen by their selfish bitch of a mother. Still, taking that much money from Irene didn't sit right with her. Like she said, Audrey didn't accept charity. She would take what was fair. Problem was, she didn't exactly know what was fair in terms of private dark magic tutor.

"75 an hour," Audrey counter-offered.

"You know you're supposed to be upping the price, right? And I'm supposed to be dragging you down? That's how negotiations usually work. You want to take my money, I want to keep it."

"I don't want your money, Irene. I want to help you, however I can. You just have to realize, I can't be available any time."

"That's fine," Irene nodded her head with enthusiasm, "I can be available whenever you're free. It doesn't matter the hour." Irene beamed and then squealed before taking little skips on her heels to reach Audrey and then hug her around her neck.

"Thank you, thank you, thank you, thank you!"

"It's not gonna be easy, Irene," Audrey warned even as she was hugged and almost toppled over backwards, "it all depends on your skill, and determination and innate magic which you can't do anything about, some people are just naturally predisposed-"

"Yes, yes, of course, thank you, thank you, thank you!" Irene squeezed her tighter and then pulled back, "You won't regret this."

Audrey sighed and then smiled. She might have regretted it already.


	8. Are You My Enemy?

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> (I don't stir up enough trouble to be anyone's enemy, cara.  
> Pay no attention to the fact I'm in jail.)

"Who are you calling Speedy Gonzalez?"  
  
It was a genuine question, honestly. There's a click of her heels as they land on the marble wall. She's high up, enormously so, but she still wore a skirt. It was orange, Briana likes the irony, and mini, and it had real gold thread plaid on it. Just because she has to make the miraculous leap down the wall and across the little hallway, doesn't mean she can't come in style.  
  
(It was hard not to think about her hunger. This -was- her favorite buffet, usually.)  
  
"Cristo!-" he looked up quickly from the little notepad and pen he managed to borrow (without permission but with every intention of giving it back). He exhaled and rubbed his chest, the cotton fabric of his undershirts sticking to his skin because despite it being January, he was hot.  
  
"Sneak up on a guy in prison, do you enjoy Chinese water torture as well?" He shook his head, frowning briefly at the fact that he hadn't heard her, which meant his guard was down too deep. Couldn't have that.  
  
An appreciative smirk that crosses her lips as Antonio jerks up, rubs his chest. Oh, he was adorable. Briana has a weakness for puppies; she always had, since she helped a litter be born in the stables as a little girl. Years ago, but she'd come to realize there were certain patterns humanity finds itself in again...again, and again. War and love, primarily, but she personally just likes puppies. Tony had the vibrant jumpsuit tied around his waist (he must be warm, she muses, tongue running over her teeth behind closed lips), his raven's hair was loose and wild, and oh, look, his eyebrows did that thing his brother's did!  
  
Okay Bri, she chides herself mentally, stop fetishizing the adorable-ness of the hybrid murderer. (But he's just so cute--)  
  
"Chinese water-torture?" She echoes, bemused. "Mm...did you know water torture actually is credited to your Italia? Hippolytus de Marsiliis, fifteenth century or so...maybe sixteenth, I forget exactly." She shrugs, popping her finger off her hoop earring. Otherwise she hasn't moved, despite how he startled.  
  
"No kidding." He didn't particular care either, he hated history. It just wasn't his style, he didn't like -old- things, he liked shiny and new things. Like a toddler. And while he was usually proud of his patria, he was more than glad to ignore such embarrassing things like water torture and the Vatican in general.  
  
She pops off the wall, landing light as a cat and toying with a huge hoop earring. Eyebrow cocking up, she tilts her head at Antonio.  
  
"Speedy Gonzalez? It's just a strange name to just--be out there right now." Her lips flick up, a little smirk. But the truth was, she wouldn't be there if it wasn't for who asked her there -- and the fact that Tony shouldn't be there.   
  
He looked up at the woman again, watching her land delicately on her heels from a high jump and then put one and one together; vampire. A familiar vampire, but he couldn't quite place her yet.   
   
Ignoring the Speedy Gonzales remark, a shock all it's own, he asked instead, "Do I know you?"  
  
"Sorry for sneaking up though," she adds genuinely, leaning off the wall, "Only way to get in unnoticed--you warranted the top-security cell and all. Took all morning, you know."  
  
She was only half-teasing, that he should 'feel special.' With a giggle, she nods at his question, waiting. Tick-tock, Antonio...  
  
Oh, fine. (She bores easily.)  
  
"I'm almost hurt you don't recall," she says, as if he hadn't been thirteen at the time, "Yup. Not as well as I know Olive oil, obviously, but see, I know you call him that. Briana."  
  
"Came all this way to see me? I'm flattered Miss....," he tried to rack his brain for any kind of indication. Remington had a lot of friends, so did Olivier, but he tended to ignore them and she didn't mean this woman during his undercover stint.  
  
"Briana Sofiya Aleksandrovna Karev." The Russian accent-tipped words flew in one breath, simply because she couldn't help it. It had been drilled into her as a girl, and when one has a habit enforced for centuries, breaking it was usually more trouble than it was worth.   
  
"If you want to be technical," she adds, pointing a finger up (smirking, because she knew she was being thorny on an issue that Tony has no idea about, nor was it likely he'd recall her name), "I prefer Briana Sofiya Aleksandrovna Ivanova Karev, I adopted another father along the way, but," she waves it off chuckling, "Bri's just fine."  
  
Well, all right. She did have a kink for when a dark-haired man whispers her full name in her ear, but that has likely more to do with the dark haired man whispering in her ear than the full name.  
  
"...Right," he nodded, lips pursing as his brain tried to play catch up with the Russian names. Why did Russians have so many names to begin with? That just seemed so pointless. What were you gonna do? Introduce yourself all the time like 'Carmen Elizabeth Juanita De Costa Brava Cortez'? Did anybody really care or remember? Just show off pricks so he assumed Olivier would know.  
  
"Bri then, hiya Bri. I like that. It's quick, easy, like me." He grinned for a moment, his whole body lit up and rose from the bed, and then he was back to slouching as he jot that down on the side for future use, his tongue stuck between his teeth before looking back up.  
  
"Oh! Briana, the one who munches on...prisoners- my vein is not for rent," he added immediately and then upon realizing sighed, a bit annoyed. "Oli asked you to check on me, huh?"  
  
Chuckling as he cuts into his own thought process (her pupils dilated for a moment), and she nods once.  
  
"Rent?" She tilts her head. "Don't worry babe, I only go for those guilty of worse crimes than yours." Usually. She tries.  
  
"Duly noted," he remarked, his nose wrinkling as he tried to imagine worst crimes than murder. The only thing he could think of were child molesters, but those were equally hated by all inmates. They didn't tend to last their stay.  
  
But remembering what Olivier had said, she adds quickly, "Nope. Not at all. I was on my way to brunch. Recognized you, you should be flattered." Bri was smirking in that way that says 'yes absolutely he did.'  
  
"Sure," he accepted sarcastically, "and I'm an Oompa Loompa- aha!" He wrote that down quickly too, singing 'you can live in happiness too' under his breath while he finished.  
  
"Well when you don't see him, don't tell him that I'm doing swell. How have you been though?"  
  
She nods to accept his 'instructions' for Olivier, but can't help herself from adding, "If I see him, I'll be sure to tell him the truth."   
  
"The truth? You can't handle the truth!" He mimicked Jack Nicholson's famous line and then even did the famous Nicholson eyebrows before smirking again and shrugging. Could you blame him? This solitary prison cell was draining him. He'd rather be locked up with the normal population and fight for seating.  
  
She plops down on the bed.  
  
"You know," she chuckles just once, "something tells me the last thing you are is easy." One eye shuts, the other blinks open two, three times, as she looks at the ceiling, screwing her nose up as she adds as an afterthought.  
  
"No, wait. That the last thing you are is quick. Easy's just above that." She drops both brow and nose, falling in to an easy smirk. Tony was Italian and a D'Grey, and, well.  
  
Then she plops down on the little bed, eyebrow cocked high.  
  
"Stefanie's not inclined to be quiet." The dry understatement was half a tease, and only that because she only met the newbie once. It was Oli, she quotes now, but he was usually reliable on these matters.   
  
No, he was pretty easy. There was only a few people he would swear off having sex with entirely, otherwise, he was pretty much game.  
  
"And what's so wrong about being easy anyways?" Quick he definitely saw the problem with, but easy wasn't necessarily a bad thing. He took pride in how easy it was to get him up for it, in more ways than one.  
  
"I suppose nothing," Briana considers, "but considering how little new there is under the sun, I personally prefer finding all sorts of enticing --ahem." This time she licks her lips on the outside, shameless and proud. Three centuries (almost four) could weigh on a person's ability to be surprised, she supposes, but all that experience just means she can be the one to give the surprise. Briana likes that. She likes being in control.  
  
Brow arching abruptly, she leans a hand back on the bed, resting at ease.   
  
"That she isn't," he agreed, his exhaling coming out of him in chuckles. Then he considered what she said and suggested, in what he supposed was mostly a tease so he shook his head.  
  
"Sweet girl." Briana adds, equally bright, "Bit naive," you could say that again, "but drop-dead gorgeous. If you ever want company in bed with her," she winks as she stalks off the wall, hand on her mini-skirt, "shoot me a line."   
  
"Nah, I already share her enough it seems," he smirks before tapping the point of his pen on his tongue and then flicked it against his thigh, trying to get the ink to start flowing again. Stupid pen, it had been working fine a few minutes ago, now it was close to dying.  
  
"Oh?" That was spoken too quickly. There was a bitterness there she supposed would be bad manners to pry into. The man had met her five minutes ago, and she knew she wasn't being fair. She could leave whenever she wants. He had no other choice for company. Starving versus well-fed, she thinks, an age-old battle and she doesn't want to exploit more than she has to by sheer mechanics.  
  
"Hhmm," she nods, "I imagine she is hard to pin down. Metaphorically," Briana offers instead with a wink, "speaking, obviously."   
  
Has he thanked the feminist movement for the growing sexual openness of most women yet? He should. Tony will write a letter, at least he would, if he didn't think he would get a reply back on how women were not here for a man's enjoyment and objectification is to the very thing they strived against. Okay, splendid, he agreed! What he was happy about was women objectifying -him-. Yay equal rights!  
  
"Literally too, since about a month ago," he nodded mostly absently and then tilted his head as he considered for a moment, "actually even before vampirism. Huh." He shrugged again, humming under his breath 'the more you know'.  
  
Cocking an eyebrow, Bri decides to file that for a moment.  
  
"So I'm curious. You coming up with prison nicknames? Oompa Loompa, that's.." she casts her mind around, then snaps her fingers, "Stewart, yeah? The little one, with the sticky fingers?"  
  
"Yep!" He sounded out the 'p' and nodded, "Tiny's the huge one obviously, I'm Han because I'm flying Solo. Hiro- I'm between Speed Lightning and Toretto, Speed Lightning being the name of the race car in Grease, and Toretto is Vin Diesel's character is the Fast and Furious franchise. Pippy Longstockings is the ginger that keeps his hair in a ponytail. I've got a bunch."  
  
And then she laughs, genuinely amused at the names rather than judging what he did to while around these long hours (who was she to throw stones?). Pippy was a good one, she liked that. Tiny tasted great too; no antibiotics, no unnatural antibodies, she would say one thing for the cults. They liked their men clean.   
  
(Hiro, she was pretty convinced was innocent, and likes to air on the side of caution.)  
  
"Yeah, all right Han." She nods, smirking light, "You could always combine them. S.L. Toretto or something. Hop between them. Hiro could use the boost, I bet. Ah-oh!" She meant in acceptance among the peers, but oh look, wasn't she clever? Speed boost? With a guilty grin, "See what I did?"  
  
S.L. Toretto? Sounds like a good codename actually, he would definitely keep that in mind. The only thing is that he would have to use it in a situation where Bri was not involved. Also, side note, -he- was supposed to be the whore of the family? Olivier 'befriended' no one *but* gorgeous women. That made sense though, most men wouldn't stand his brother because any kind of guy that Olivier would even meet would have ego problems. Plus, Oli was a dick. Then again most women liked dicks. Double meaning, for the win.  
  
But he digressed.  
  
"Ha!" he laughed once and then wagged his finger at Bri's play on words, grinning, "nice! I like it." Tony nodded, deciding quickly that he liked her. Tony's decisions on a person were always done quickly, instinctually, and it usually took a huge event to turn his opinion around. Well, he assumed, he had yet to change his initial opinion of anyone he had met that he could remember.  
  
"Nice skirt by the way," he noted with a small smirk, "very appropriate. We match!"  
  
"Why, thank you." Briana tossed her hair over her shoulder, relieved to hear his lighter laugh. Of course, it makes sense that he wouldn't have trusted her right off the bat (about as much sense as it makes that he would be looking for human connection. Well, human-like).   
  
"It's for the cameras, really," she pushes the corner of her skirt down, half teasing (but only half). "I'd be spotted by security much sooner if I wore something else. Well. When, mm, occupied."   
  
She winks. Occupied, as in feeding, as in she was standing still long enough without disabling guards or cameras to be caught.   
  
"It would be easier to just disable everything," still he adds brightly, "but I look so *good* in orange. Which, most people don't, so you know - if you have it, flaunt it." She waves her hand up in the air and okay maybe it also went over Tony. Sue her, the boy was gorgeous.   
  
"Camouflage," he nodded as he realized, unsure of how he felt about it. Normally he was very pro-choice; no one who didn't want their neck assaulted should be getting fed from but he couldn't deny feeling a little better at the thought at some of these sadistic assholes getting their comeuppance by being used and abused. Maybe it was time to get a therapist after he got out.  
  
"Looks good, orange is definitely not mine," he wrinkled his nose at the orange suit he had stuffed down to his waist. "So more power to you!" And he could enjoy the view while she did and made herself comfortable on this ridiculous excuse of a bed. Feed his eyes.  
  
Chuckling, she shakes her head but let's herself look at him anyway (hey, he was the one gesturing), letting the manicured nails on her drawn-up thigh tap-tap-tap. "No, it's not." She agrees: orange made him look washed out. Then Briana quips, light, "But bunched up and muscles-bared in that tank suits you."  
  
Probably not as well as an actual suit, but she wasn't really surprised he looked good. She'd been wary, when Olivier first called, remembering the thirteen year old 'punk' less than she remembers Olivier's anger when his brother left (and grief), and remembers how much of that had been his judgment (*Oli's words) over their streak of vampirism. Briana was prepared for that quick 'my vein is not for rent', but honestly otherwise she couldn't see Tony treating her any differently.  
  
"Every cloud has a silver lining," he said as way of thanks, a very weird thanks. Personally, Tony had never understood that. Clouds weren't lined with silver, if they were, it would make them too heavy. And silver wasn't exactly a positive aspect for some groups of people. Maybe he should start saying every cloud had a silver lining to mean that he hoped a silver pointed spear descended from the heavens and staked his enemies.  
  
"Mm," she chuckles, deciding she would take that as indication that Tony was not only grateful but...humbling himself. Interesting. Olivier would do the same, but falsely, when it came to new clientele.   
  
"And I always preferred silver to gold myself," she says, fingering her silver hoop again. Not that she wouldn't wear gold; but orange was so flashy already. Briana could only do so much to dress her camouflage before she looked like a prison-yard slag. Nope, she answered sweetly when the prisoners assumed things--she broke her rule about which prisoners she wouldn't feed on based on cat calls at times. But Briana had never claimed to be straight-laced.   
  
(Or at least not since she was sixteen, five lifetimes ago.)  
  
Amen to that. Though Briana probably didn't realize that the reason he did was less about the aesthetics of gold vs silver and more about the uses. Again , give him a good silver stake any day of the week. He took another look at her and realized she was right. Gold accessories would have made her look like a hoochie mama. Which worked out great if that was what she went for but he doubted it.  
  
Scooting herself further back on the bed now, she cocks her head down at the pad he was writing on, letting a moment of silence fall comfortably. His heart was a steady drumbeat in her ear, but she doesn't miss the slight vibrations in his stomach either. It had been ... what, four, five days?   
  
She knew what Tony was doing there; Olivier had explained (well, as much as D'Grey ever explained anything, silly Oli) -- and she knew what Tony would be craving. And probably, denying it to himself. A few days was nothing, she thinks to herself, there was no need to bring that up yet. Besides, with Olivier's track record, he'd be home before he could blink or even think to start missing it.  
  
So instead she asks, twirling a curl around her orange (she matched!) fingernail, "So a month ago? Stef only turned a month ago?"   
  
"Give or take a few days, yeah," he nodded and as he tapped the pen on the notepad, he looked back up from it as he realized that this nickname business was no longer the most interesting distraction.  
  
"I warn you though, you really don't want to head down that road, we'll be here talking about it all week."  
  
Eyebrow dropping, she giggles once at the quick-look-over he had darted up her, and then exhales unnecessarily.  
  
"I don't mind. Do you have somewhere else to be?" Briana asked, ignoring the obvious factor she was there to offer company as much as check up on him for Olivier.  
  
"Although I take it then this transformation...mm, wasn't asked for." In her experience it seldom was, one way or another, even when it appeared to be their choice. Give a kid a chance at candy, wouldn't they take it, unaware of the poisonous wrappers?  
  
"I obviously am a very busy individual," he replied dryly and then smirked, shrugging. Why did everyone want to talk to him about Stefanie? Was it written all over his face? Grr.  
  
"Oh no, she asked for it." He rolled his eyes. "Case of making your bed and lying in it now. Stupid. But whatever, it is what it is now, can't go back. Moving forward!" He threw his fist in the air forward, and let it fall again.  
  
"And all that jazz."  
  
There was a skip in Tony's heart and a growl in his throat before he answered, and this time, it was most certainly false-brightly. Briana cocks her head. Oh, touchy subject then.  
  
"While I am a fan of jazz," she offers with a head tilt, "I meant -you- didn't want it, actually. I can't speak to her as I've met her a grand total of once--never did like coming around when the Ricards were at your house--and besides. She's not here," she points at him, cutesy, "you are."  
  
"Yeah I usually split when they got there too. Never liked them." Hans was a dick, Stef was a brat, and Marcel...Marcel was still too soon to think about without a pang overtaking his chest.  
  
"Course I didn't want it. I don't like vampires, no offense, you're lovely, but as a whole? No. I like humans. Humanity is awesome! And everyone around me thinks it isn't, that it's lacking or that it's boring and it sucks, well it doesn't. That's just lies supernaturals tell each other to feel better about their miserable lives. No offense.   
  
And stupid TV shows and movies perpetuate that thought process constantly so then you have humans believing that their lives will be lacking unless they go off into a thrilling adventure and are important enough to save the world or something and that's just bullshit. How dare they not realize how amazing they are? How dare they tell each other they're not enough? All of them are enough. Every single moment lived is important and every single life is important, and supes think humans are below them that they're prey or food? No! To the back of the bus with that mentality."   
  
He finished with a pout and realized he had been furiously drawing a stick figure vampire and werewolf in a fight. He tore off the piece of paper and gave it to Briana.  
  
"That's gonna be worth millions one day you should keep it, it's a masterpiece."  
  
The second time Tony had said 'no offense' made her think she should count how many offensive statements he made before realizing the number was actually zero. Why in the world would humans advocating for humanity be offensive to her? (Of course, he seems to take offense as 'supes' advocating supernatural-ity, so it was probably personal.)  
  
Briana was about to say she was personally a large fan of humans herself (they were delicious; they were fascinating, and she'd been one, but it was too long ago to matter). Then he sent her with it to the back of the bus. Tweaking her nose, she otherwise regards him evenly. Probably for the best she didn't respond with it anyway; judging by the impromptu rant, he would have taken offense to that. Interesting. Was it Stefanie after all that was his sore spot, or his own hybrid nature?   
  
Olivier had never been sore about that, not that she could remember. She met the kid over a decade ago. D'Grey manor had been famous for annual parties celebrating a la Noel and as she had been at the very first one, she decided to the centennial was worth checking out. In a hundred years Tony's father had made a name for himself in decadence and blood, and become an even bigger dick than she remembered. It would have been a wasted evening had she not met the kid, but Olivier had fascinated her. Her minds eye held an image of him on the balcony stoop (a seven year old in Armani, and treating it carelessly enough there was dirt rubbed into the knees), reading and then startling at her approach. For all his trembling heart (and watery eyes), his voice hadn't shook, his throat hadn't wobbled, and his French was pitch-perfect when he asked if there was anything he could assist her with. At the time, Briana had remembered another Christmas, another crying child forced to keep decorum, and she sat right down on the stoop next to him in a whoosh of silvery silk, uncaring. She'd never forget Oli's smile at that. Nor the look he had when he confessed he just wanted his Nonna there -- it wasn't until a few years that Briana knew it was Antonio and his mother he'd meant, but she knew he lied to her that night. The audacity of his lying to a guest who'd scared him -- well. As she said, fascinated.  
  
He'd gone off the edge for a little while, and Briana hadn't been able to stand it, but all through helping him out, learning balance, not once had she ever got the feeling Olivier resented his hybrid nature. He reveled in it. Tony's outburst now makes her nod slowly understanding it was quite the opposite: he wishes he was human himself.   
  
Well, now she understood why it was Olivier couldn't have taught his brother the same control he learned, why Tony was in this very jail cell.   
  
Accepting the drawing and smiling brilliantly as she realized it was a wolf being defeated (she surmises) by a stick-figure vampiress (judging by the miniskirt), she tried not to laugh. She really does. It was just a tiny one, really.  
  
"I will put it in a temperature controlled vault first thing." Briana tucked the drawing carefully inside her mini's pocket, then looked right back up at him, eyes piercing his.  
  
"And don't worry!" She adds brightly, "Not a shred of offense taken. I don't tend to take the opinions of prey and/or food into account as valuable."  
  
Briana pauses. Then smirks, adds, "That was a joke."   
  
"I'm all for improper humor but that wasn't even the tiniest bit funny," Tony shook his head after his shoulders stopped being tense and then clasped his hands together, letting the pad fall on his lap, thumbs twiddling.  
  
"Tickled me." Briana mused aloud, unconcerned with the fact that Tony claims it wasn't amusing. Her humor wasn't everyone's cup of tea, and it was a claim irregardless, for she senses his relaxation. The tense shoulders drop as his pad does, his thumbs  became preoccupied in bored pursuit of an imaginary beat, and he quips in return. ('Quips').   
  
Tony narrowed his eyes. Tickled. One of the worst choice of words ever to exist in his humble opinion. He let it go though, since he barely knew Briana and because he wasn't about to share -that- particular detail with her either. It was too secret, need-to-know basis. Which is also why he was never telling Daniella on account that she would just blab.  
  
Sliding back so that her necklace slips out, bounds itself over her own white camisole, she lifts a hand to toy with it.   
  
"That was fairly inspired, actually. I have to admit though, Antonio, I'm not entirely sure why it has to be -- that black and white, one is better than the other, no argument. Humanity can be beautiful, no argument. I see the value in it, and I see the value of the supernatural, the mysterious. I also have met some terrible humans. The worst, in some ways, but that's my diet so yeah, prey. And your brother isn't human, but I wouldn't say he's lying to himself to avoid his miserable life either."   
  
Is that what you're doing, her eyebrow asks. Or maybe she asked him if he wanted fries with that. Briana was relatively new at D'grey eyebrow communication.  
  
"For every shitty human theres a thousand more better than him or her. For every shitty vampires there's 100 more like them. I don't have the math but I'm sure there are studies out there, I'll get together with my genius friend after I get out and get you a more accurate number." And that was how Tony did humor. Not too bad, not exactly funny either.  
  
"There are nine billion or so, beings on the planet. Less than ten percent are magical. Less than half of that are supernatural. I'll agree with you on the half of them that are wolves," she wrinkles her nose in distaste, "but when you consider the stats, I have to wonder at the usefulness of grouping any supernatural creatures together to be labeled to begin with. Not the point."  
  
"But not all those who are supernatural are necessarily magical, so," he corrected, adding, just to have something to say because otherwise he was just going to get trampled over with another lecture. Ugh, was he play-doh? Did he just look like a mound of make-believe clay that people wanted to shape to their will?  
  
"No, my brother resigns himself against being better so that he doesn't have to work at it. And I drink and fuck the pain away. Have you heard that song by the way? From Peaches? Pretty awesome, my friend Estela who I graduated with loved that stupid yet addicting song. Fuck the pain away, that's a good motto."  
  
Then she cocks a finger up, pointing at his ceiling.   
  
"Why Antonio, just musing aloud, but have I stumbled upon what might be a sore subject for you?"   
  
"A bit yeah," he mused with a small smirk before shrugging and laying his head back on the wall. Oh great.  
  
The song was familiar to her (though it was no Bon Jovi), and she bopped her head twice to his imaginary thumb-twiddled beat as he repeats the motto. Fuck the pain away. There was no law against it (and she'd break it if there were), but plastering it as a life aphorism leaves her wary.   
  
"Good pastime, to be sure, but...I'm not sure, as a motto. If for no other reason than I can see plenty of other things worth fucking for more."   
  
Swiveling on the bed, she lets her heels smack into the concrete  beneath, echo pleasantly in her mind at the rough movement as she continues to regard him.   
  
"I didn't say sex was exclusive to pain relief and even if it was Miss Bri, that's my business."  
  
"No, you didn't." Briana allows, amused he seemed to take it so seriously as she taps her heel on the floor still along to the beat of the song (certain now to get stuck in her head). "I just was suggesting, perhaps a bit too contrarily, that the motto should be along the lines of...say, fuck everyday."   
  
She winked, in a fake production voice, "Good for all occasions." And her hand waves under it as if on a banner, unfurling with grace and poise despite the vulgarity in the air. (She was Russian-born, after all.)   
  
"Well that wouldn't work for me right now anyways. Turns out jail? Not overflowing with gay sex! Who knew?" He pursed his lips, bringing the corners down as he shrugged with exaggeration. Maybe if he were in a better mood he would be a lot more flirty with Bri, or maybe that's because he was still wary on the whole vamp sex.  
  
Briana snapped her fingers abruptly.   
  
"Should have figured. The prettiest ones are -always- gay."   
  
Oh, she knew the joke he'd actually been making, but sue her for turning it around, however minutely with a smirk. She hadn't expected this to be emotional (although she hadn't actually bothered expecting this to be -anything-): Tony might be surly, a bit on edge, but could she blame him? And it only seemed to make him more...likely to crawl right under her skin with his brother. Wonderful. Why did she always feel compelled to help the broken ones again?  
  
"We all got a little gay in us. It's a spectrum. Though it does depend on the person. I am much more gay for Justin Timberlake than I am for Johnny Depp," he explained with a happy smirk. Of any of the teases he's endured, this one didn't even rank top fifty.  
  
Turning back on the bed as he regards her, she ventures simply, "Apologies for the sore subject though. I think it's fabulous you have such regard for humanity myself. It is too rare a trait. Plus, you know, speaking of mottos, I think there were a fair few bumper stickers in that speech. Campaign buttons. Are you running for office, Antonio?"   
  
"No need for apologies," he waved it off and then laughed at the thought of him running for office. Yeah right.  
  
"Nah, I'm not leader material. Always more of a follower with no love for responsibilities."  
  
Chuckling, she allows, "Well, I could see that. Your brother doesn't delegate responsibilities well. It's his control kink. So why should you have them?"  
   
"Oh good point," he chuckled and then nodded. He hadn't actually thought about it that way before but it did make a lot of sense.  
  
"Because I don't look for them, I most certainly don't accept them, and I've spent all my life running away from them." He shrugs again and then smirks. His brother had enough things he was responsible for, he really didn't need any help from anyone else to put even -more things on his shoulders, geesh, especially not his own stupid mistakes.  
  
Her lips flick up as she thinks; it had been a rhetorical question, which Antonio seemed to understand judging by the appreciative chuckle, and he still answered the question anyways.   
  
"Troublesome little thing, aren't you?" She has to ask, though she found it cute he said that. Childish, sure, but he was about three and a half centuries younger than her, so she couldn't expect anyone to have that same maturity, could she?  
  
Her ears were straining, swiveling as she hears the monotonous slow walk of an approaching guard, and a slow smirk spreads across her lips. Leaning forward, she lays her finger across his lips, whispers, "Shh," and then darts back -- under, and up, until she's spread-eagled on the boxed bed spring beneath him, holding herself up effortlessly as the guard approached the cell.   
  
"Yes, hardly, and much more complex than 'thing', thank you very much-" he was cut off by a finger to his lips. She shushed him and as he finally listened he heard the faint footsteps that were coming down the hall. His lips flicked up in a small smirk and then nodded once, and not a moment later she was moving to hide under the bed without touching the floor. Nice.  
  
What wasn't nice was the fact that he hadn't heard the guard approaching until now and similarly, Bri snuck up on him. The blood was slowly moving out of his system and with it, his abilities lowered too.  
  
"Hey Hephaestus!" Tony greeted, grinning and waving. This guard the shoulders and arms of a godly blacksmith, hence the nickname. His real name was like Pierre or Jean or Marc or something traditionally French.  
  
"Who were you talking to?" He asked, his eyebrows raising. Tony thought that was a stupid question, because if he had really heard Bri he wouldn't be asking. And who else would he be talking to?  
  
"Well, Briana of course!" He then smirked and turned sideways to speak to the thin air.  
  
He loved that he didn't really lie.  
  
"Briana meet my new best friend Hephaestus. I call him Hephae, like Jefe, the chief, the boss, the big man," he nodded and then made a show to lean in as if to hear a whisper and then he laughed once, shaking his head.  
  
"No silly, he has a wife." He smirked again and then turned to Hephae as he smacked the bars of the cell with his manly stick of doom and no, Tony didn't mean his penis. This time.  
  
"Quiet in here, D'Grey."  
  
"Yes, sir, yes, sir, three bags full!"  
  
Silver hoop stuck in her hair, Briana was more irritated by the little tug on her brunette lock than she was in the suspension a foot from the ground. If the guard made her hair start to curl because of how long she had to hang it there --   
  
Mm, nope, she shouldn't think about that: anger was too easy a trap to fall into, and well, Tony was directly above her, warming the thin mattress she clings to, already filled with that delectable, mouth watering scent.  
  
Briana wanted a nickname. Or, rather, she was wondering which of the many Tony had likely come up with she was going to be. Hephaestus, cute, patron of blacksmiths-- it didn't take a genius to figure out which guard he spoke of. You know Tony, she thinks idly, Marc was a good guy. At least, he wasn't likely to take a D'Grey bribe, or any, so if not particularly willing to bend for a cause he was capital G-Good. Prickly though, clearly.   
  
The sweet smirk was lifted as he walks away, slowly, and she falls into a push-up position, rolls free, and hops back in a blink to be laying on her side, on the bed. At this rate she figures, -she- was going to be Speedy Gonzales, dammit. Hand under her ear, neck tilted invitingly and necklace loose over her cleavage, she doesn't bother fixing the turn in her mini-skirt, smirking sideways at Tony. Her hoop was free.   
  
"Thanks, milaya moya," she hums with another wink. "He's already spied me twice. They really do have you under close watch here, huh kitten?"   
  
"No problem, cara," he nodded after he watched her fast movements bring here to the bed once more. He had to admit it was a tantalizing and inviting sight, which is why no doubt he reached for the cigarettes in a hole in the wall. His own personal little shelf, if you would.  
  
He'd won them in a couple of card games earlier, so easy to say he wasn't everyone's favorite. And by favorite he meant not at all. His name had too much influence here and yet no room for change or alteration. How many people walked into prison with a reputation already? Admittedly not of his own making.  
  
Kitten? Me-ooww-. He chuckled and then put a cigarette in his mouth, wishing for his JT lighter. Took him a couple of tries of snapping his fingers to get it to light.  
  
"I don't know why," he inhaled and then exhaled the smoke through his nose, "I'm the perfect example of good behavior."  
  
He actually meant that, didn't he? For all his sweet-smirk smart-ass behavior with Marc a moment ago, Tony hadn't moved. He hadn't blinked. He covered her, and now he was just pulling his cigarettes down. Amused, she lifts her hand and waves it back and forth to blow away the smoke.  
  
"Good behavior, mhm. You say as you have," her mouth and voice drop, "an illicit cigarette with a secret woman-in-bed." Amused, she stays still, trying to avoid inhaling too much of the narcotic.   
  
"Well," he admitted with a shrug, his guilty grin turning into a smirk once more, "good enough." He blew the smoke away from her after noticing that she had waved it away from her face previously.  
  
"Keep calling me kitten and you're gonna have me curling into your lap and purring soon," he either warned or encouraged, he wasn't sure which one it was yet. Kitten beat puppy though, so he didn't want a nickname change.  
  
Oh, she didn't think it was possible, but watching Tony's grin turn from sheep to imp ringed in sweet-smelling smoke made him even cuter. Well, considering the olive and dark hair, dark-eyes, maybe 'cute' wasn't the best word. (Briana really shouldn't forget he had murdered, but she couldn't help caring anyways.)  
  
Then she laughs. "Purr away. I always did love an Italian man's rolling R's. Besides," she sits up a bit straighter and pokes his shoulder, "you'd look good in my lap."  
  
His R's did make for fun situations most of the time. Then he laughed once as she declared he would look good in her lap and had to agree.  
  
"Almost as good as you'd look in mine." Oh and he was doing so well! Oh well, like he had any sense of self-control. Wasn't that the reason he was here in the first place? Well that and his insatiable hunger that encompassed all of his desires. Besides, this was him tame. It hadn't even been a week, he'd be fine.  
  
Eying the fag, she adds after a wave of her hand, "Taking the edge off, kitten?" Look, she had liked what his heart and throat had thrummed with when she said that before.   
  
"Where'd you get those, anyway? Tiny?"  
  
"Won it off Iago," he explained as she asked. Iago of course being one of the guys he had to worry about despite his oddly high-pitched and annoying voice. He may or may not have a bullseye on his back now but, no big deal.  
  
"No one beats me at Seven Card Stud. It's my best game."  
  
Ooh, Iago wasn't a favorite of Bri then. Well, personally, he was sure as a feeding cow Iago did a magnificent job.  
  
"I have friends. And admirers. Which I dislike more than my new 'enemies'." He raised his fingers to do the air quotes and then took the cigarette in his hand again to blow out.  
  
The quick quip might have been expected, but she just pulls her hand back and gives a girlish giggle into her palm, tilts her head back and runs her hand over her jugular letting the laugh die off naturally. Sure she would. But it made her relax, knowing that Tony might be an outrageous flirt--but if she could lay this close and exposed to him and his heart hadn't even skipped, then she genuinely could tell Olivier his brother was doing "swell." At least, he wasn't yet in danger of losing control, that withdrawal hasn't yet reached a critical point. To be sure, she hadn't thought it would--he was only half-vamp, and he'd been so all his life. Whatever his issues with control, they were newer than his biological need was (and she figures that was because he waited so long to indulge in the first place, but unlike Olivier, she thinks she admires the stubborn abstinence. Like Oli had never willfully ignored what was good for him? Oh wait!)  
  
"You," she prods his shoulder again before turning, falling on to her back and folding her arms on her chest, "are awful. And correct." Sue her, she couldn't help it, "But hey, I doubt everyone likes every admirer they ever had. Think of murder mystery copy-cats. Christie would disdain of plenty of her followers."  
  
Oh, he got it! This was a test! Wasn't it? To check if he was going insane without blood and or sex? He felt a lot more deprived of the latter than the former, let's be honest, but he wasn't about to jump her or something. No matter how great she looked in that orange mini skirt. How -did- she pull that off? Maybe it was the brown hair and the paler skin that comes from being a vampire.  
  
"Awful?" He pouted and then shook his head. No, he was amazing. Alright, maybe not, maybe awful was actually a very accurate and appropriate adjective for him the majority of the time. He chuckled anyways, smirk returning as she added he was correct and then nods.  
  
"Awful. In the best way, naturally."  
  
There, that pleased him much more. Awful in the best way was the perfect description, bar none.  
  
There was a sudden knowledge in his gaze, but the smirk on his lips left her comfortable; if he did know what she had done, then he didn't care. Not that she would be concerned if he did. She was in her fourth century, the number of men who could take her had significantly decreased. Paris had one; Stefanie's maker was old enough, and certainly stealthy enough to make her wary. Tony on the other hand, unfed and without his hunter's toys, could be held down with her pinky if she bothered.   
  
That wasn't to say she wasn't glad she hadn't irritated him, of course; this was much more pleasant. Running her hand through her hair as she adjusted on the thin mattress, she listens, curious.  
  
"Too true. The only one I actually like so far is Hiro. Poor guy. I'd put him under my protection if I didn't know he's just gonna get it worse after I leave." Well unless he made alliances, but there was that thing about responsibility again.  
  
"Poor guy?" Briana asked. "Why do you say that? Soft spot for grand theft auto?" Then she pauses, asking with her index finger, thrown off, "Didn't a body turn up too?"   
  
She forgot. Tony's prison was full of rapists and pedophiles; she'd never gone hungry, so to be honest, she hadn't paid much attention to the others. He wasn't wrong though, being under a D'Grey's protection might be helpful while he was there, but not if he wasn't. That drew a target on his back.  
  
"If you were to believe the guy, he was set up with the body. But he barely knew French so he couldn't defend himself, and here he is. Doesn't deny stealing the car, as well as a bunch of other cars before hand. He was in the gang but I don't know he's just so....cute. I want to protect him, he refuses to fight back. Maybe I should call him Jesus instead." And it wasn't because he couldn't fight back, the guy was fit.   
  
"More like if I'm found guilty I'm disapparating right out of court and heading to Fiji," he joked, smirking. Honestly, if he was found guilty, because this was already going to trial that was determined, Tony would probably live out his sentence, whatever it was. Manslaughter could go up to 12 years at least, so maybe it wouldn't be so bad anyways.  
  
"Setup?" Briana could understand the strategy beforehand--pleading guilty to theft to avoid the murder charges, but afterwards? In this place, admitting to murder could be rewarding: protection and a badge of respect-me-or-else. Unless there was a family member of the deceased in the prison, it wasn't like they could change your sentence afterwards. And a language barrier on top of that did seem odd.   
  
"He doesn't fight back?" She asked, surprised. If he'd been cold enough to kill a guy for his car, that didn't gel with reluctance to defend himself or being amiable enough for Tony to notice him.   
  
Nodding absently, she says, "That is... interesting. I don't know the case well-enough but," she shrugs, "I thought they had a cops testimony? If he was set up..." Briana trials off, then smirks, "Well, no wonder no-one believed him. Except you that is."   
  
"There were two of them. Apparently his partner killed the guy, and you know how it is. Cops see an Asian guy stealing a car, and 'all of them look alike', so. I don't know, he seems sincere enough. No uptick in his heart as he told it so." Tony wanted to believe him, and it wasn't like he was totally innocent either, he did steal a car and was an accessory to murder at the very least but Tony felt for the guy.  
  
With an arching eyebrow slow moving up her forehead, Briana listens otherwise unaffected, simply observing in curiosity. Judgement in any fashion was exhausting; she tends to avoid it if she could. (Admittedly, it was hard for her not to actually -care-, but she did try not to over invest.) Nodding once, she chuckles under her breath, "Actually I don't know how that is, but I believe you."  
  
Waving off she adds, "And your brother." It sounds like something Olivier would have said. Tony didn't have quite the same level of heavy disdain in his words, but notes were there.  
  
Of course, his brother first and foremost. His was the most reliable word, especially as Briana was Olivier's friend, as much of a friend as Olivier made . Then again who was he to talk? Look what Tony did to his friends: complained to them, cried on their shoulder, left them for years without so much of a word, came back and pretended everything was the same as ever. And oh yeah, he killed some.  
  
She lifts her finger from her hair to prod his shoulder again, a tad bit closer to his neck now, playful.   
  
"Oh!" She brightens, "I approve: Fiji is beautiful this time of year. Ever been?"  
  
"Nah, always wanted to though. Been to Curaçao though ! Spring break trip, first year...," he trailed off, his thumbs twiddling again before he took the cigarette and tapped the ashes off. He had gone with a lot of friends, Emily included.  
  
"You've gone to Fiji?" He asked after a couple of seconds of silence. "Even with the potion, doesn't that much sun bother you?"  
  
Her hand has dropped back to her necklace now, which she toys with as she chuckles in absent agreement.  
  
"I was born in Korstrova, Russia Tony, " she lifts the necklace and watches it bounce," -vampire- or not, that much sun bothers me." Briana was both glad and bemused that Tony had asked the question. Suspecting it has more to do with concern for Stefanie's prospects than herself, her smile twists up. It would poke the bear to ask though.  
  
"It's doable. They have a few herbal remedies themselves among the natives. I simply took the potion more frequently and stay up all night. The beaches are just as beautiful at night--if not more so! Besides. You tell me I can't do something, I'll prove I can. So if you do disapparate," she blows him a kiss, "I can visit, don't worry."  
  
He chuckled, happy to have an excuse to do so, and nodded. "I can imagine," he nodded, smirking as he was suddenly struck with the image of Bri in a bikini on the island of Fiji. Wasn't too bad of an image if you asked him.  
  
He popped the cigarette back in his mouth as he listened, wondering idly if Stefanie would like Fiji before taking the stick between his fingers again and exhaling.  
  
"Great! I'll probably build my own little cabin near the water, with it's own little pier. Open the front door and jump in the ocean. Paradise."  
  
And oh did he appear to be imagining judging by the boy's heartbeat and smirk. Briana's self-satisfied smile in answer, she grins as she makes herself more comfortable. Marc shouldn't be back for a little while, and with the camera shielded from picking up on her, she had no reason to leave. Tony's company was enjoyable--much more so than even he seemed to believe.  
  
"Glad to hear my company would be appreciated then."   
  
(Actually, she knew his heartbeat and smirk could just as easily have been images of Stefanie, or anyone else as hey she doesn't judge, but she prefers her own optimism. And the image of Tony shirtless on the shore with one of their native cocktails was...mm, gorg.)  
  
"Parasise." She agrees easily, then lifts her finger again to add, "Though for sheer beautiful sights, I've never seen anything that beats the Aurora Borealis.  Nature-wise, anyway. You know I actually would agree with you humanity produces better sights in the end."  
  
Very much so, though the prospect of having -two- vampire mistresses was too scary to ever attempt. They would bleed him dry and then possibly continue fucking above his corpse. Oh thank God that thought didn't arouse him in the slightest, there was still a part of him, no matter how small a part, that wasn't completely insane.  
  
"Haven't seen those either...I've seen the movie Aurora Borealis, though it had very little to do with the northern lights even if they did appear, it was more of a...dramedy. It was alright, I just watched it for Joshua Jackson and Donald Sutherland. Great actors, Juliette Lewis was hot too. Talk about human sights," he smirked and then inhaled the last of the cigarette before tapping it out on the wall.  
  
Movies, she thinks with a tiny chuckle, wondering if he appreciated their particular history. She has to admit, somewhere in the seventeen hundreds she had started to weary of the repeated histories and events; if it hadn't been for the Russian-Parisian exchanges in the early nighteen hundreds she might never have left Russia again. The overthrow of the family rule she had helped seen founded had driven her out, but the revolutions of industry and technology, honestly, it amazed her. She no longer understood how anyone could be bored! Every two months there were new...toys. Of the non-human kind, and humanity produced all sort of fascinations as she said.  
  
"She's no Mary Pickford, but she's not bad." Briana chuckles, twisting her head so the ash avoids falling on her. Watching as he disappears the cig, she adds, "But I love travel. You like movies then?"  
  
Unaware of Mary Pickford was, he decidedly shrugged it away and then laughed at her question. He laughed because it was obvious and because Bri had just signed her death sentence. Well, her death-again sentence. Tony smirked and then adjusted his position on the bed so that he was belly down and his hands propped up on elbows held his head up.  
  
"Only a whole lot. Not as much as I love tv shows, but yes. I'm pretty sure my first memory was watching Cars on Netflix." Except it wasn't. It was of his mother's smile as he opened the toy helicopter she had gotten him for Christmas.  
  
"Don't like that movie, Pixa but the Aristocats, the Jungle Book, The Rescuers, Robin Hood, The Sword in the Stone, the Black Cauldron?!" He scoffed and then rolled his eyes. Obviously, he knew that the sub par animation was not the only reason those were called the Dark Ages but still.  
  
"To compare it to an age ridden with death and plague and disease seems a little harsh," he nods and then keeps talking quickly.  
  
"When I was three I remember watching Mars Attack. We had this neighbor that looking back on it now had the hots for my mom so he would always stop by and he was no idiot, he knew the way to a woman's heart was through her children, well those that have children, and he would bring me stuff. Toys, candy, you name it. He brought me this DVD of the movie Toy Story 2 except I think he must have borrowed it out off a friend or cousin or something because the DVD was actually of the movie Mars Attack and she popped it in the DVD one night while she showered and by the time she came out she came face to face with those freaky aliens. I liked the movie! What little i saw of it then, but she freaked out. Threw the DVD in the guy's face and then kicked him out using a broom.  
  
Have you seen Mars Attacks? Other alien invasion movies? What's your favorite one? Mine is a tie, because I love Independence Day -Will Smith and Jeff Goldblum were great, I loved him in Jurassic Park and Will Smith in the Men In Black movies-, but I also love The Thing, because it's more thriller than apocalyptic. The Thing in Antartica took the face of whoever it killed so you never knew who it was! And Starship Troopers is a good one too, disgusting at moments, but I guess not technically alien invasion, unles s you consider humans the aliens and in the movie we can! So it works- but also Ender's Game, that Asa Butterfield can really act and it's actually the first book I read that I ever finished. I went on to read all the sequels, though following Ender eventually gets boring, Bean's story is much more interesting, I love Bean. Though I guess i loved his plotline a lot more because he returns to Earth after the Buggers are defeated and now that the world has annihilated the common enemy, they all start turning on each other. Much more interesting to me than traveling the stars looking for an appropriate planet to start a new colony of Buggers. Anyways, I love Bean, and him and Petra, though I can't believe she ends up with Peter! Then again I could see that, they did have some chemistry in that I-hate-you-you're-an-asshole way. And what ends up happening!- I've gone off topic." He clears his throat and then grins.  
  
"Favorite alien invasion movie?"  
  
The moment she saw that smile, the kind of knowing smile a four year old gets before singing "I know something you don't know" while hiding stolen cookies behind his back, she knew she was in trouble. Then again? By the time he'd finished by running out of breath (and boy did he have swimmers lungs), she was so delighted and amused at having found a subject he clearly enjoyed, she didn't understand sneaking cigarettes to him: clearly he would prefer a bootlegged DVD and handheld player. His brief mention of his mother along made her smile soften; she had never heard Olivier mention Belle in all the time she knew him.  
  
"So 'boy do I', translates to 'are you sure you want to ask that too late you did!' huh?" Briana asks, propping up on her elbows even as she stays fully laid out.   
  
"Definitely," he smirks at her brief question, nodding before he listened intently to the answer to his own question. People's favorite alien invasion movie said a lot about them, you know. Well, any movie they proclaim favorite enough to mention aloud in conversation was enough to figure out the kind of person that they were. For instance, anyone who knew Legally Blonde was an excellent movie were A-plus people, and those who advocated Batman and Robin with George Clooney and his nipple suit were crazy and out of their minds. I mean for god's sake, Bane was a prisoner with no brain?! Fuck that. Not that the Christopher Nolan film got the backstory any more correct but he was a lot better.  
  
"Favorite alien invasion movie?" She holds up a finger 'one', "Close Encounters of the Third Kind, bar none, I still have those notes seared into my brain. But sci-fi wise, Star Trek. Kirk and Spock -or- Picard, I can't choose at all. You also," she smirks, "can see me in the background of the Enterprise' crew in the Picard season four. Friend of a friend kind of thing. Still one of my absolute favorite memories of that decade. Jean-Luc is still one of my favorite Frenchmen. Picard, me, the Enterprise bridge, and a good vodka martini?"   
  
Then she winks at him, picking her lower lip slowly as she says in a low seductive voice, "Make it so."  
  
"Nuh uh! You're pulling my leg," he poked her now after all the poking she had done to him before. His grin widened as she continued and then he laughed as she took the classic statement and turned it provocative. That took some talent, that was for sure.   
  
"Well, Patrick Stewart is a god in his own right," he nodded in agreement over her choice of sci-fi. Great choice, and nothing beat Star Trek, and Star Wars only came close though the original three were fab. Somebody must have sacrificed a lamb or an ox to the gods to allow them the view of Princess Leia in that slave girl costume. Thank you, nerd gods.  
  
"Hear hear." She echoes toasting him with an 'aye aye capn' smirk that he was indeed a God as she added, "And oh-ho, I am not pulling your leg. Go on, ask me anything. I am going to be fluent in Romulan soon, I promise you."  
  
The poke he gave her might as well have offended her honor as a Trekkie the look she gave him. At least it was an orange mini skirt, not red. Then she would have been in danger of him voting her out of the island, or the like. (Actually, ha, yeah right, like anyone would vote her out of bed.)   
  
"If you're fluent in Romulan that must mean you have already mastered Klingon and are ready for a challenge," he assumed with a small smirk. He considered calling her a Trekkie but then wasn't sure of the difference between Trekker and Trekkie because Star Trek hadn't been a die-hard show he absolutely had to watch constantly. He watched in spurts...and most of it while he was high.  
  
"Ahh, as much as I would like to agree with you, I just picked Romulan because it's prettier than Klingon."  
  
She chuckles, slipping her hand onto her own heart and spreads, splitting between middle and ring-finger saying fond, "Live long and prosper."   
  
Though she continues to toy with the necklace strap around her middle finger as she listened, she couldn't help the spurt of 'aww' to cross her lips. Even if she agrees. It was one of her subtle downfalls (and greatest assets).   
  
"What about your favorite 80s movie? And no series either, so no Indiana Jones, no Star Wars, none of the Star Trek movies. I don't care how much you love Wrath of Khan, if you did. Personally, I love The Breakfast Club: Moe-Lay really pumps my nads. Classic. I also love Fast Times at Ridgemont High. That shot of Phoebe Cates as Linda Barrett, coming out of the pool? I went through puberty with that scene.  
  
With a grin, she shakes her head and says easily, "Oh come on, John Hughes was a series himself. But...well serious-movie wise, Deer-Hunter, but. E.T of course. And The Outsiders--is that 80s? You do realize the decades kind of run together for me, yeah?"   
  
She was half-teasing, but that pool shot -- oh of course. Laughing, she just pushed his shoulder and fell back to her back, comfortable. "I'm just surprised you didn't bring up Rachel Ward in the doorway. That may have been 70s. Oh! Wait, Bill and Teds. Yeah. And Weekend at Bernies. But I will love forever Bill and Teds. Be excellent, Tony. And party on, dude."  
  
"E.T. made me cry. No joke. When he goes 'I'll be right -" he takes his finger and pats her chest, "- heeere.' Who didn't cry? Let's be honest. Who didn't? Heartless bastards, that's who.  
  
Stay gold, Ponyboy, stay gold! Totally 80s, I mean you've got Patrick Swayze and Ralph Macchio- oh! And The Karate Kid! Don't even get me started. That movie is like...my cinematographic bible . I've finally moved up to Miyagi level. Well, then I got myself thrown in here which I'm not sure Miyagi would have ever done but still!" He nodded, as if it that cemented the fact completely and then grinned as he tried to remember the movies.  
  
"Oh, no embarrassment, no shame, I love it Tony. It touched me too. I'll cop to that-it's important, see, keeping in touch with those pesky human emotions." Her lips flick up, "One of the things it says in that newsletter, you see," she chuckles.  
  
"Oh! With Keanu Reeves- okay, serious question now." He paused for dramatic effect and then asked in a whisper for the same effect, "is Keanu Reeves a vampire? That guy never ages! You all must have some sort of...vampire newsletter right?" It was a joke, and his smirk and wiggling eyebrows showed it.  
  
"No, that I don't know. Wondered the same thing myself! But don't know, he wasn't the heart throb for me. There should be a newsletter though. That would be helpful. I'd say I could just give you one for any questions you've got but I prefer to tell and," she winks, dropping her voice again, "show."  
  
"Oh God, an honest woman. Should I plead for mercy now or later?" He smirked, laying his head on his arms now, his neck getting tired from holding up his head, chuckling at the traditional Vulcan salute. And he couldn't help of course that that's where his gaze traveled to. She'd been playing with that necklace long enough; it was only a matter of time before his eyes had wandered. He was no Jesus.  
  
"As merciful as I am babe," she remarks, happily as she shifts her head slight to the left to keep her gaze on those beautiful big blue eyes, "I'm not much for pleading. Begging's ...just unbecoming."  
  
And begging hadn't helped her. The familiar thought is barely visible in her gaze or throat.   
  
A vampire as old as she was and in touch with her emotions, miracles do exist! Now if he could be granted the power to perform miracles of his own. Maybe just one, he would be an excellent Moses! Maybe not so much.  
  
"So not that much of a sadist then?" A guy could only hope. After all general rule of thumb is most vampires were or became sadists eventually. Otherwise how could they bare to not-live with themselves for an eternity? But like Tony has said before, countless of times, he ain't too proud to beg. Stubborn pride was such a bad trait to have, yet it was romanticized almost as often as vampires were! Didn't people know that prideful stubborn jackasses were impossible to deal with and not attractive in the slightest?  
  
"Not much." Briana drags the pendant up her chest, towards her neck, allowing, "Barring enemies. Are you my enemy?"   
  
"Eh, I don't stir up enough trouble to be anyone's enemy, cara. The best, or worst depending on how you see it, I've gotten is 'in-the-way'." But even flies were capable of getting in the way, that wasn't exactly a trait to be proud of. Personally, Tony didn't like enemies, that just left for broody frown lines. Not to mention, he tended to prefer when people actually liked him, but that seemed to only be happening 50% of the time recently, which is a sudden change from 85% of the time in college, but far better than the 13% before he left France.  
  
The question was sardonic, a joke--but she doesn't discount the possibility, as never and always were words that didn't have the same meaning to her as they did to most. And one of the most maddenning and beautiful pieces of humanity was it's capacity for change. By contrary, she knew very few vampires who hadn't been stagnant in nine out of ten personality traits they had as a human. Huh. Well, she wouldn't say they couldn't change it was just...much less likely. Maybe it was part of 'death'? Living was changing, growing...  
  
Tony's "nerd side" drew her thoughts back to the important topic: Keanu Reeves.  
  
"Really? Not even during Speed? Or The Matrix? Or The Replacements?" Poor Keanu, man. Every woman he had ever discussed him with never had the hots for the guy. Tony would say he was a good...9.76% gay for the man.  
  
"Hmm," he licked his lips, "I've always been a visual learner myself as well."  
  
Briana cocks her chin up now, casting one eye shut and the other to screw up contemplating the ceiling. Let him look. He'd had a tough week, she knew. And playing into his 'visual learner' side was likely as helpful for him as it had been for Olivier.  
  
"Oh all right, Speed, yes. I won't deny he's gorgeous." She waves it off, hand flapping without letting go of the necklace, "Just my lingering interest. Would you believe, four hundred years and I still can be unbelievably impatient? Though true, I always was...and yeah, hanging on to those human traits can be troublesome as much as anything else."  
  
"I thought one of the benefits of being a vampire was patience," he tilted his head as he tried to compare that to his personal experiences. Well, Remington had never snapped at him out of pent-up frustration. Actually, he had never seen the guy angry. Even when Tony had killed him the bastard had smiled, ear to ear, mouth coated in red. His father gave The Joker a run for his money in both the creepy and the sadistic genius department.  
  
"Well. By virtue of the fact I can outlive most people who cross me, I suppose I can be patient." She smiles, and supposes yes it is probably one of those that could be construed as directly contradictory to her 'not sadistic' standing. "But I've always been..." She stretches, like a cat with a smirk wide, "flexible."  
  
Ah, contrary, so she was in fact a woman in all meanings of the word then. If there had ever been any doubt, not that there wasn't, then now he was absolutely positive. He still liked Bri. That pretty surprising to him for her being a vampire. She was coquettish with a grin that said she had caught the canary many times, but oddly enough so were most of the women he was meeting recently. He wasn't so cocky as to think he was the sole influence to their behavior, but he could allow himself the illusion from time to time.  
  
Briana continues, "I guess I just prefer to make things happen. Just because I -can- wait endlessly doesn't mean I -have- to."   
  
Cocking an eyebrow, she asks hoping it's casual, "Stefanie's probably still too emotional to tell, yeah?"   
  
Plus out of all vampires, she chose to show off in a way that -wasn't- detrimental to his health. If he had to meet another supe with a killer handshake or the words 'I could kill you with a toenail' metaphorically tattooed across their forehead, Tony might kill himself and then them.  
  
Scratch that, reverse it.  
  
"Hmm?" He asked suddenly, pulled from his stupor at the mention of Stefanie's name. It took him a few seconds to process what Bri had said and a second more to respond.   
  
"Oh, yeah, I guess," he shrugged before his mind that grew emptier by the second, too much thinking. She twists on the bed then, popping on one elbow and looking at him; scoots down, knees popping up, so her head was near where Tony rests on his arms.  
  
"Go on then. Ask away. Oli did mention he never got answers growing up either." With the same breath he pointed out she should avoid direct mentions of his father--something Briana was only too happy to do.  
  
The questions melted away as he tried to search for them, his metaphorical nets coming up empty of a catch. Now it was time to grasp at straws and see what he managed to barely pull out.  
  
"Is garlic really that annoying a smell to you?"  
  
"Garlic." It was incredulous, bright-eyed. "I give you a free invitation and you ask about--" she was struggling not to laugh, leans over and kisses his cheek, "oh, I like you, Antonio. And babe, garlic bothers most women, but yeah, it's pungency is--," she shudders and shakes her head, then breaks in another peal of laughter.  
  
At least the question amused her. His grin was impish and his chuckle was breathy before he shrugged, pleased at his little 'reward'. Well he'd always wanted to know.  
  
  
"Oh no no, don't generalize! This all garlic and bad breath thing and why women avoid it is such bullshit. I've met plenty of women who've scarfed down garlic bread or garlic shrimp, garlic pizza, et cetera, and have no problem with bad breath. And what if it does? Pop a breath mint after. There's nothing sexier than a woman eating a full course meal without reservation or worry about oh no but my breath, but what if I get something stuck in my teeth, what if I look like a pig?" He scoffed and then shook his head. Nope, 'most women are bothered by garlic', blasphemy if he'd ever heard it. Don't generalize to feel better about yourself, that was Tony's advice to the world (though not to Bri in this aspect, she was a vampire, their noses were sensitive to garlic, apparently.)  
  
Tony still wasn't claiming he wasn't a hypocrite.  
  
"I couldn't live as a vampire then. Nope. To be shunned from garlic forever! I couldn't bear the loss. Rule of thumb when seasoning? It needs more garlic. I don't care if you've already added it, add more. Got a whole clove? Perfect! Peel them, smash them, add them!" He smirked and then relented.  
  
"Garlic is a serious matter. I could never be with a woman who didn't like garlic-" eh, well. Maybe he should think twice about this rule. He had already done away with his rule of fucking the dead, what was another one? He restrained a sigh by disguising it as an exhale and then shrugged with a brief smile.  
  
Briana simply nods in agreement, finding him absolutely adorably Italian in that moment and thus, she leaned in to brush a kiss to his cheek before popping up. Marc would be coming back. Instead of reminding him of that - and subsequently of the fact he was in prison, Briana decidedly just smiled.   
  
"I'm going to dash," before I get too hungry and you get too appealing, she thinks mentally, lips twitching upwards. "But I'd...like, to come back and see you soon. Would that be all right?"   
  
Another kiss. Maybe he would feel more pleased about them if it didn't feel like the type of kiss a girl would give their gay best friend. Wasn't the first time he took on that role, he knew how to play it well. He was like a gay best friend that actually flirted back! Best of both worlds for some women, not so great for the women's boyfriends.  
  
He sat up as well when she did, smirk wry as she explained herself and then asked if he would like her to come back. Was that a trick question? Why wouldn't he want relatively sane company? He used sane very loosely and very subjectively.  
  
"I'd like that too, " he admitted with a nod as his smirk turned grin.  
  



	9. You like Coffeehouse AUs?

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> {No! And stop changing the subject!}

The graceful side swipe of the credit-card through the machine predicates a side-step equally full of grace. Taking over for a woman tired and in need of a break (he whispers into her dark, curly hair until she agrees), her replacement squeezes her chocolate-colored shoulder and teases his hand through curls as she mutters 'Merci.' Yet though jade eyes sparkle in bemusement, he doesn't appear to hear her gratitude. Coffee fills the cafe's air with warmth, chasing off the chill of January. The scent of cocoa crisp on a sharp tongue buried behind his teeth as it pours into a mug through a silver plated nozzle. He stops it with his sleeve, sweeping whipped cream over vanilla mocha, no shortage of sugary syrups adding flavors in flourishes that befit an artist's brush on watercolor canvas. Adjusting the uniform's chartreuse visor and apron as he loads a tray, a fat sharpie marks the mug beneath a scribbled name -- Irene -- with the marks that meant in this restaurant world "Table 3, by the window." After snaking the mug off another's tray, he adds it to one already laden in his arms. Mugs and tea cups dotted with his artistry, they balance precariously, too many of them. Well. For anyone else. Tray floating on his arm as he maneuvers through the crowd one hand adjusts the apron again, the other fixes a caramel strand of hair behind the hat before helping the mugs apparently melt away. All but one.   
  
Table three, by the window. Caught for a moment as her head was turned and his eyes fill with the welcoming, familiar vision of chopped blonde hair, he reasserts only when he's setting the last cup down.  
  
"Vanilla latte, extra whip--," why my, was her startled jolt of a heart rate delicious to contemplate, "non-fat cream. Is there anything else I can get you, darling?"  
  
Smiling down with ease, Ansel adds only after licking whipped cream off the tip of his finger, "Mm. Delicious. I do favor the classics."   
  
No, gross, hideous, ugh! How could an actress of her caliber be seen even breathing the same air as that misogynist pig? Irene wasn't one for quick judgments of other people, she was all about acceptance, but there were lines and they had just been crossed! 10 Oscar nominees or not, Irene would think twice before watching another one of her movies, yes sir.  
  
Flipping the page of her celebrity and gossip mag, she waited for her delicious coffee. The smell of it in the air was enough to calm her down already. There was just something so mouthwatering about fresh coffee beans ground to perfection, an aroma that swirled along with whiffs of chocolate, caramel, peppermint and pumpkin. She was either going to marry coffee or strip it down and make an honest beverage out of it, because lord the things one drink could do to her.  
  
She exaggerated as always* (note: another exaggeration), but it did make her immensely happy. And she did need an extra dose of liquid happiness. The tutoring session with Audrey today had gone no worse than the previous, yet also no better. Irene didn't give up easily, and it would certainly take longer for her to make progress, but she hadn't expected it would be this difficult. Audrey tried to explain to her that Irene might just not have the right magic to cut it, but Irene refused to hear it, end of story. Still, talk about a blow to her ego.  
  
Noticing a rather cute dress worn by this month's hottest singer enjoying her fifteen minutes of fame (or however minutes there were in a month...60 times 7 times 30? No...wait-), she bookmarked it by folding the corner of the page and creasing it with the pad of her thumb, she suddenly brightened to see the coffee placed in front of her. Joy to the World, the Latte's come! Let Rene receive her Drink! Before she could finish her rendition of a classic holiday carol, she was suddenly pulled away by a familiar voice.  
  
Her heart skipped, and not in that good way, like it literally tripped over its own aorta and somersaulted over grainy, splintery gravel and landed in a pile of hot coals. Looking up, there he was, Ansel Dorat, in the flesh, with her coffee order.  
  
Darling! Darling, she'll show him 'dahling', she- ooh! Ugh! What was he doing here? Why was he wearing that? How could anyone even look semi-decent wearing that grotesque uniform? There was literally (yes, Devin, shush, I can literally hear you from here, I keep misusing the word literally) a mountain load of things she wanted to say to him, at the summit of which there were innumerable questions she had for him to answer. Instead, she got defensive.  
  
"You have four seconds to tell me why I shouldn't throw this mug at your mug, scream bloody murder, kick your balls in, and call the cops, starting now. One!"  
  
"You'd waste a scrumptious vanilla latte," Ansel began immediately despite the fact his mind was still very much on simple enjoyment of the rush of heat pulsing throughout Irene's chest. Heady in her astonishment, anger and indignation, he tastes a thrill in her on the tip of his tongue and luxuriates. Flipping the circular tray and resting it on his hip as he straightens everything but the jaunt in his neck, he waits for 'two' before he gives his next reason.  
  
"You scream bloody murder and all you'll accomplish is scaring that nice little family over my left shoulder, you see them, the two little girls and their muffins?"  
  
The tray in his hand gestures behind him, but Ansel doesn't turn. He hasn't blinked. His jade green eyes were staring into hers, searching with a smoldering intensity and...honesty.  
  
"Ah, and then, those, tres manufique Loubitons you're wearing? Unless you've slipped actual knifes in there, such a kick would only break them. And if you have, then I'd be forced to break them. That would be a capital crime."  
  
Twisting now to double check the manager wasn't paying attention to them, he tucks the tray back to his hip and leans down closer to her. He was still smiling, voice even-tempered and calm.   
  
"You did say if I wanted to speak to you again, I should invite you to coffee. So consider that," he points at the latte, "on me."  
  
Fair point. Dickhead. Undeterred, she keeps her gaze hard and holds up her hand in what looked to be a peace sign (she had offered peace already before, he had retaliated by denting her head in), but what was really her counting off, "Two!"  
  
Momentarily battling with herself on whether or not to look where he gestured, because she was supposed to be unyielding and harsh and brutal damnit, Irene did end up sparing a glance and was disappointed to see he wasn't lying. Not only that but she would probably startle and scare the entire coffee house. She was that good a screamer after all; powerful lungs.  
  
"Three," her voice had lost some of its urgency as she began to realize he was speaking rationally, and in public and not right against her face while her body was pressed against a wall and him. Someone took a lesson in civilization. It didn't stop the fury from becoming annoyance and exasperation however.  
  
"It's my Jimmy Choo's with the knives, so you're in luck. Four," she replied coolly, harrumphing audibly and taking a sip of her coffee. Still great despite the fact that she wasn't going to be calmed down anytime soon.  
  
Especially, as he said that next! Was he bloody -kidding- her? Out of all the things to pay attention to her to (which should have been -all- of them; his first mistake), he was going to remember and then act on that?! Her palm stroked the surface of her table in frustration as she narrowed her eyes and leaned up speaking in a whispered shout (oh yeah, she was capable of contradictions like that).  
  
"A month, an entire month! I told you about Rachelle, you leave me in that dressing room, and poof, I don't hear from you again. Quick, let me catch you up, I almost died! Twice! Another one of my best friends is also a werewolf! In fact, everyone around me now has superpowers of their own, my life is some sort of Buffy episode and I'm like...that posh popular girl that keeps getting in the middle! Hello, yes, welcome to chauteau Irene, where the freaks party and the party is freaky. I, am a -very- very, but do you understand -very- unhappy camper right now!  
  
You know what you could have done to talk? First of all, given me the -choice- to talk to you or not! Spoiler alert: I would have said yes! After yelling at you, because you deserve it, because you're an asshole and you need to be yelled at! Second of all, you could have called to set up a coffee meet up. That's what people do when they miss me and want to get in touch with me. You could have called, texted, emailed, IM'ed, written, skyped, poked, snapchatted, facetimed, kik'ed, oovoo'ed, facebooked, buzzed me, pinged me, rang me! That's what people do! They don't hijack an apron, tray, and a coffee order and corner me while I'm trying to have some peace and a delicious latte, Ansel! We are -NOT- in a coffee shop AU!"  
  
She finally breathed, her lungs expanding drastically and rapidly from working overtime just now. You could say she'd had a lot on her chest. It rose and fell now as she tore herself away from his stupid green eyes and took another sip of her coffee.  
  
Her cool response about Jimmy Choos made him chuckle.   
  
"Lucky me. I have seen your handiwork's after-math, after all." May you rest in peace, Zach.  
  
Of all things to be worried about, Ansel was mostly concerned at this moment that his ever-present amusement with almost every word that Irene said would only infuriate her further. Oh sure, he understands her righteous anger on the surface, but...really, was he getting this right? She was upset he hadn't been in touch sooner?  
  
Cocking an eyebrow, he says first, mildly, "You haven't blocked my number from your phone?"   
  
Curious, Ansel thinks with a small twitch of his nose as he inhales another dizzying breath of her fire. Then he leans back again to casually slide the tray on the table near her coffee and sit down. The manager (and it's not like it was actually his manager) was well aware why he'd agreed after the phone call to cover for free--she wouldn't bother him now. And for once, he didn't want to press an intimidating stance on her. Better they sit as equals for now; it hid the fact they weren't, in the practical matters alone, that was.   
  
Having no Earthly idea what half the things she mentioned were, he nonetheless listens intently - to her voice, not just the racing heartbeat calling to him - before he says calmly, evenly, "In the interest of facts,  cheri, specifically your life was actually endangered four times. I took care of one of Roswell's posse on my own; he didn't come again until my attentions were diverted.  As for the month delay, I confess: events have been unfolding at too rapid a pace, and...put bluntly, I had no urge to call you until matters...settled."  
  
Ansel leans back in the chair, relaxing, completely and utterly still at ease with the situation. It never hurt that Irene made everything look so damn good and arousing. As he wraps his wrist around the back of the wicker chair, he speaks again. This time it was serious. This time, the dark glimmer his voice usually had was replaced with cool, even-tempered honesty...but it was still low.  
  
"I have no intention of pretending this is an alternate universe, Irene."  
  
Why could he not just stop smirking?! Did he not understand that she was very serious? She would have said deadly serious except she actually wasn't able to even harm him yet. It was a constant anger the fact that compared to her, he was all-powerful and she was at the mercy of his good graces. Not that she acted like it, of course not, because she wouldn't give him the satisfaction. She was Irene Lucille Burns, and a little thing like fear of strangulation and neck snapping wasn't going to stop her from taking control of this situation.  
  
Several times, actually, but this week his number was unblocked. She had also changed the contact name several times since she had met him. He was currently listed as 'actual proof of my slowing descent into insanity'. If he kept giving her that condescending amused smug look though, it was going to be a much quicker descent and this vanilla latte was gonna decorate his face.  
  
Ugh, but it was so gooood.  
  
She felt herself relax considerably as soon as she stopped craning her neck to look at him and he took a seat across from her. At the same time however, she knew now it would be a lot more difficult to stand up and storm off in a fit of rage. Irene should have done so the moment she saw him but let's face it, she'd had a lot of things to say, still did, and he wasn't being as big a dick as usual.  
  
"Well that was infuriatingly vague," she took another sip of her coffee, the cup staining with her red lipstick. Licking the whipped cream off her top lip, she frowned and then leaned forward to grab that stupid hat off his head and set it down on the table.  
  
"No, but you have every interest in pretending, because that's what you do in -this- universe. You pretended to be my friend and then betrayed me, and then you pretended to be a psychotic bastard to scare me; it worked, by the way, congratulations! You really had me going for a bit there," until he told her about Colette, until she found out he left her bleeding and freezing that night to save Stef, until Rachelle and then himself explained the reason those bastards hadn't gotten her afterwards was because he didn't let them. So, Ansel was not a psychopath, just extremely fucked up.  
  
"And you're not a barista! That is also a lie, and that hat is part of the lie, and if I wasn't mildly positive you stole this from unsuspecting girl you batted your stupid eyelashes at and called 'dahling', I would make origami out of it because it is the only thing that hat deserves, it is hideous." Priorities, she had them.  
  
"We're also in the same universe in which you're in the habit of moving me and posing me like some fucking Barbie doll, and then throwing me aside once your interest is diverted again by something shinier. I don't think you can possible understand how -furious- you make me," her eyebrows rise.  
  
"So I would think very carefully about what it is you want to say to me, because while you've been off 'settling matters' with your new pack, I've been learning how to give werewolves aneurysms."  
  
And, failing at it, but what she said was true!  
  
Brows furrowing as he listens, his face was softening, smile solidifying in place like two frozen Kit-kat bars squished together. Irene was right; he pretends, he fabricates, he plays. Internally, Ansel pictures a bright mansion. The rooms were gold, heavy curtains jade and pulled back as if stolen off a stage. Long dining room tables fill with succulent delicacies overflow from the kitchen. Masks from the Opera make scattered dots across cherry tables in the game parlors, whiskey glasses and champagne flutes swell, pool balls click and clack, darts fly. Though people mill about, he's a blur to them, active and ignoring the fact it makes the house empty.  
  
In the upstairs hall, picture a painted over trap door. Pretend you can climb thin air to a dark attic. Fill it with faded photographs of curly-haired blondes and full moons, with cut up newspaper articles and yards upon yards of red yarn. His life was built by tugging those strings and tying them back together. Then picture a gilded lock on the trapdoor, a Salzburgan piano sitting atop it.   
And that, roughly, was the game he played 24/7 with himself. Jostled from thoughts as Irene snatches his hat, Ansel fails to swallow his chuckle at the quick gesture. He could have stopped her - could have grabbed her hand, but he let her make the hat twice-stolen, was done with it.  
  
The terrible truth for him was he hadn't been pretending the night she claims he was. When he grabbed her, he thought he got a clearer look at the man he'd been forced to become than he had in years.   
  
Cocking an eyebrow, he remarks lightly, "Actually Irene, I have a very good idea, how furious I make you."   
  
His fingertip strikes his ear, reminding her. Expecting a huff of indignation that would reverberate in her throat and chest and accidentally-adorable glare, he speaks again, still mild.  
  
"In fact I was a bit concerned you're experiencing a heart attack -- flattering, by the way, merci, cheri -- but ah, I see now, it's you preparing to give me an aneurysm."  
  
No, it wasn't. He didn't need supernatural hearing to know she might be learning that, but she hadn't done it yet. It only took a set of eyes looking into hers, and Ansel never could tear himself from that striking gaze for too long. But she could think that she'd fooled him.  
  
Folding his fingertips together as he leaned on the table, he shakes his head fractions of inches and chuckles to himself.  
  
"Truthfully, Irene, I wonder more at how I'm meant to get a word in. Or rather, how I'm meant to answer anything if just sitting down warrants such an...onslaught. Though," his fingertip raises again, "again!  Flattering. But you did seem to indicate awareness of the simple fact that I have...as it were, "ascended" into the position of alpha. By all means, if anything from the last month or onwards strikes you as a psychotic bastard, say so -- but forthwith I would appreciate dropping any reference to being a sired bitch of Hans'."  
  
Oh look, his smirk was back. It fades as he reaches for the tray, stealing a nearby empty mug and filling it with the same coffee she drank by waving his palm over it. His eyes take what feels a long, needed soujorun from looking at her as he rips open a sugar packet, pours the crystals in with one hand as the other twirls the sweet-smelling cafe with a wood stick. Thank heavens they didn't have silver rods. The potion making his abilities permanent seemed to also have heightened sensitivity to it. It made sense; he was more innate wolf now.  
  
Without looking as he stirs, Ansel asks, "Can I have betrayed our friendship if I was pretending to be your friend?"  
  
Meeting her gaze with an eye flick, he shrugs the question at her and off of him.  
  
"Kidnapped, sure, assaulted, oui, but betrayal?" Ansel sets the wood down, pinky naturally up as he lifts the coffee to his lips and appears to blow against it to make it cool. That was for show. He likes it piping and roaring down his gullet.   
  
"I regret that." It was mild, before he took a sip, but he doesn't blink. Calmly, he adds, "Though in truth, Irene, it's unbelievably selfish of me to tell you so. As is what I'm about to say, but that won't stop me."  
  
There's a rap of his pinky against the mug as his eyes crinkle and the corner of his mouth perks.   
  
"I'll tell you all I'm at liberty to discuss. Understand, others secrets aren't in my purview. Anything else, go ahead and ask. "  
  
Huffing, eyes narrowed and obviously more than cross, she crossed her arms in front of her chest as if that was somehow going to stop him from intruding in the privacy of her involuntary muscle movements. So he could hear her heart beating, big deal. Understanding her anger needed a lot more than just the ability to understand the physical effects the anger had on her body. Her point was he couldn't possibly understand the mental and emotional drain, and Irene was not meant to be drained! She was always, always, full. At one hundred percent capacity, always.  
  
"Damn right," she spoke quieter, her eyes boring into his as she realized that he didn't believe her for a second. There was nothing in his mind he had to fear from her. That was where he was wrong...she hoped. Maybe she couldn't physically kick his ass, but Irene was well versed in the art of crushing egos and toying with emotions. It was her dark side, the fact selfishness and bitchiness came naturally to her, she only had to reach out.  
  
Then she realized how sad that sounded even to her. Her dark side was being a spoiled bitchy brat. She had never felt more sixteen years old in her life, and that had nothing to do with the fact she had only been sixteen for a month.  
  
"How else did you think I would react? Did you want me to hug you, kiss your cheek, express relief at the fact you're alright after all? You knew when you came here to accost me what it would mean, so man up and deal with it because I have a -lot- left to say, slash ask," she took her latte again, licking some whipped cream off the top directly before taking another sip. Setting the mug down, she laced her fingers together and set her joined hands down on the table in front of her.  
  
"But fair enough, I'll grant you leeway into the conversation."  
  
Pursing her lips together as he requested she drop sired puppy bitch from her list of insults, she rightfully acquiesced because hell, she had a lot more, and that one was no longer accurate. He was alpha now, took it from Hans, and she really couldn't say she was feeling bad about that. Now that she had time to think about it more actually, she was curious as to what exactly he had been up to in his new position as packmaster. Alpha. Whatever he styled himself, as long as it wasn't king.  
  
As he made himself comfortable with his own coffee, Irene took sips from hers, not once taking her eyes off him. She didn't trust him, plainly, and yes she also wanted to prove that she could look at him without needing a reprieve no matter how intense it got.  
  
"I wasn't pretending," she answered after a moment, "and I felt betrayed so yes, you did. Next," she ordered, ready to move on from that point. She was over it. Okay fine, now she was over it, starting now, she'd never bring it up again, it was in the past. As actually, were most things between them. All they had in the present right now was a coffee date.  
  
Wait, hold the phone, reign back the horses, pause and rewind right there. Was he...preluding to an apology? Isn't that what regret usually expressed? Her eyebrows rose in natural wariness, fearing being tricked again.  
  
"Keep going," she took another sip, wanting to see where exactly he was going with that. Selfish was his nature, after all. That didn't surprise her, what surprised her was the fact he was here at all. Up until today, she was expecting never to see him again. Or if they did, only because it happened to occur while they were an route to the one person they had in common: lovely Stef. What possible reason did he have for seeking her out again? Unless he felt he needed a verbal lashing, she was good at that. And of course, there was the fact that she was amazing and perfect in every way.  
  
"Alright, first question then. How does it feel? Away from those bastards, being your own man again. Second question, goes along with the first, what are you doing with that freedom? If you're in the middle of your own evil diabolical plan, I'm going to be very disappointed. Not to mention furious. Again. More so." Ugh, why couldn't he just have...taken his pack and moved to Nepal and lived in the wilderness as full wolves?!  
  
"And third, why are you -here-?"  
  
  
A little chuckle catches beneath his tongue as it rolls up, pressing to his mouth's roof. Aha. How did he feel? The questions came in quick succession, but he lingers on that first one with wry bemuse. What was the recent obsession with psychoanalysis of any actions, whatsoever? Behavioral tells take center stage and all are assumed to have meaning. No attention was given to one's inner world -- or at least "why do you feel that way" had been replaced by "let's shove drugs down your throat and if it doesn't help we'll try another pill cocktail." These were clear double standards in psychology 'advances' in the last fifty years and they seem to have spilled over even to their, aha*ha*,  'Coffee House AUs.'   
  
At the last, smirk back for all his honesty, he takes a sip and responds to the questions simultaneously.  
  
"How do I feel being away from  terrorists who owned my and my family's ass for the better part of a decade? Free. Wonderful. Next. See: Why am I here. It's man excellent, tricky question, but I can say with certainty it isn't for a therapy session darling." Pill cocktails had been replaced for him too, a long time ago. "So if you're going to ask me to talk about my feelings," seriously he has to stop swallowing this chuckle that wouldn't meet his eyes anyways, "I regret as well that I'll have to disappoint you."  
  
He clears his throat, a finger up. Neither answer had been a lie, after all; he has nothing to add on feelings, and when it came to his present location, he suspects she won't believe him yet. So while he did tell her the truth, he knew that wouldn't satisfy her.  He'd always been good at doing that when it came to conversing with Irene.   
  
(And she was insatiable too irregardless.)   
  
"As to your second question, well, I suppose it would depend on your definition of diabolical. My wants haven't changed, merely simplified."  
  
His gaze still holds hers, and though he was impressed by how she held his, it seems to burn itself on the back of his eyelids. She had a stare some women in Paris would kill for.  
  
"I might, be free of the organization, and of the moon, and of Hans -- but, Paris isn't free. J'aime Paris. J'adore ce sont les gens, j'aime c'est de l'art, c'est de la musique, c'est pouls et le rythme. Cette ville est ma maison, Irene. I was born in this city twenty-five years ago, and there hasn't been a day I've been alive it's been truly safe."  
  
Ironic he says his, he thinks, knowing quite well that when Monsieur-D'Grey-Most-Senior had been running his beloved city they'd posted the lowest crime rates on the world. You mean the government wholly co-opted actually doesn't erase the crime and danger? Mon dieu!   
  
" And then, there's the fact that you can't find record of my existence in any government office. That wasn't Hans, understand, that was my father, the first time I left home. I plan on correcting that. As to what else have I been doing? My brothers and sisters have not had a home in years that wasn't mobile. Most of them are now," his eyes darken, tongue whipping sharp, "without aid or relief for the upcoming full moon. Eager as I am to make amends, I have to look out for them first. That's my job."  
  
Ansel takes another sip, knowing on that subject he was likely to get too angry to discuss calmly. This time he blows against the mug, cooling instinctively, and there's nothing for show about it.   
  
"And as much as I wish to help Paris, I know that I am hardly the man to do so in daylight. The government has been corrupted enough by those of my...mmm, disposition."  
  
Murderers, he meant, and he couldn't help but smirk.   
  
"A friend of mine from...oh, years ago, on the other hand? Darrell is about to announce he is running for office. I believe he wants Paris clean, and so, I intend on helping him win." His hands come up, smile small again.  
  
"Does any of this sound diabolical to you?"  
  
"Do I look like a therapist to you?" She rolled her eyes, annoyed that he'd think that her asking him how he was feeling was an attempt to therapize him and that he mimicked her 'next' to move the subject along. Couldn't it be just as simple as the fact she wanted to know? She had asked him the last time they spoke, when he ruined a perfectly great dress by approving of it to make it so that she didn't buy it, if he really wanted to spend the rest of his life being a lapdog for a bunch of evil bastards. Now he was free of them, she wanted to know whether that even made a difference. Just because they couldn't have it all as friends didn't mean they seperstely couldn't have it all. Problem was the definition of 'all' here. If Ansel didn't know what he wanted, he would settle for what other people wanted.  
  
Okay that was mildly therapizing, but still!  
  
"Disappointing me isn't a first for you, but no, I don't want to talk about your feelings," she took an indignant sip of her coffee with her head held high. She wanted to talk about his actions in the past month and his actions in the coming future. How could she rest knowing somewhere Ansel could be out causing mayhem and being a charming asshole to another unsuspecting blonde?  
  
That, son of a- no. French?! How dare he speak French to her? How dare he comply with her previous rule of at least three (or was it five) French sentences per conversation now?! Another time, it would have made her beam that he paid attention to her. Actually, he seemed to be quite attentive to what she said, after all he had gone as far as to quote her to Tony. So he listened to her, he just chose to ignore her until it suited her. That was worse!  
  
Never mind the fact that she didn't know French, so he had no idea what he was talking about except the fact that he loved Paris. J'aime she knew, she used and overused it, and Paris, or rather Pari as he said it. Pursing her lips as she weighed his words about Paris, his home, the more he spoke, the more her expression softened.  
  
Damn him, just damn him.  
  
"Asshole," she commented quickly about his father, her frown now directed at the invisible presence of yet another horrible parental figure. Irene knew about jerk fathers, and Ansel knew she knew so what if he was just making that up to gather some sympathy from her? Frankly, he didn't need to lie for that, she was sympathetic anyways. Damn him twice.  
  
He was helping his pack out. That was it? That's what he was doing? Helping them get through the full moon without the help of Harper's potion? She exhaled through her nose and brought the mug back up to her lips again if only so she could hide her expressive mouth from fighting to become either a pout, scowl, frown, or disappear entirely if she pressed her lips together further.  
  
"And how exactly can a 'man of your disposition' do to help Paris get clean?" The question avoided her answering that it didn't sound diabolical in the slightest, but Ansel was a liar. And when he wasn't a liar, he was an omitter. And when he wasn't omitting, he was avoiding. And when he wasn't avoiding, he was distracting! Irene wasn't like that- pay no attention to the fact she was avoiding now! Ansel brought out on the worst in her.  
  
Again, her worst = avoiding the truth. Some worst.  
  
Interesting. Ansel was beginning to think she'd found a way to have her heart tell him every time she thought 'bastard.' Or some variation of it, he supposes with the flash of his thumb wiping cream from the upturn on his cheek. It definitely got faster at his abrupt French, but was it surprising he'd speak in his native tongue about his native city? Oh, darling, you are right to say I have an answer for everything. Satisfying questions, on the other...er, paw? Ha. Ansel had never been enough for anyone. Why should his words be different?  
  
(Except the obvious one, that was, but he thoroughly destroyed that.)  
  
Smile spreading, he speaks calmly, "Oui, mademoiselle. It appears you have caught me. My methods might yet be diabolical even if my objectives aren't."  
  
Ansel smiles before he takes another sip of his coffee. Could objectives even be diabolical? Methods were the divisive factors by and large. Whatever one's goal was, you could find some psychology book validating and justifying your want -- someone, at some point in history -- likely wanted it to.   
  
Light, he adds, "That was mostly a joke."  
  
He sets the mug down with his smile. Oh, my look her heart did it again! Bas-tard. It beat out what he supposes idly, yes he absolutely was. Resuming leaning on the table, Ansel ponders aloud as if for the first time.  
  
"Let's see. Once my records are restored, I am a Parisian citizen, I can vote for him. I can register other voters," His smile gets wider and wider as he keeps going, however many time her heart beat thinks it's insulting him, "make calls, knock door to door, drive people to the polls...it's all in the grassroots organization, c'est vrai!"  
  
Ansel's index finger taps the side of his nose as he winks, the other hand picking the mug up for another quick sip.   
  
"But seriously," he continues, savoring the heat once more from his beverage, "this government has been on a short leash. As alpha, I suppose you could say it seems right to me I be the one to hold it. Or rather, snatch it away and release it. Instead of...ah, attendre!"   
  
Quickly looking side to side, Ansel rotates in his chair to regard the intimate cafe once more. Crowded with smiling families and pretty university students enjoying their vintage newspapers on backlit screens, the atmosphere is cozy. Still holiday, truthfully, they've neglected to take down their fir garlands and red ribbons, and Ansel's smiling as he tastes the air.   
  
Side-eying Irene, he continues with a light lilt and a smile full of danger, "Let's see if speaking his name brings on the four horseman of the Apocolypse to strike me down for lacking honorifics."  
  
Scooting his chair back towards the window, he continues addressing Irene even as he toys with the black-gold cross he wears.   
  
"See, Irene. I know you've met both heir and prodigal son, but how much do you know about the organization known as 'D'Grey'?"  
  
Yup.  Heads turned. New Year's Resolution: Make that stop happening.   
  
"The end does not justify the means," she told him, but she had the distinct impression she was quoting someone historic, important, just, noble, and heroic. Either that or Nadia, she couldn't really tell. Either way, it just didn't sound like her. Did she even believe that anymore? So many things had happened, those she called friends have done so many things in the name of good intentions...  
  
Brain hurt.  
  
She'd focus on the fact he was a smug bastard to get her anger back because it was disappearing dangerously quick. It wasn't her fault! Her delicious, curvy frame wasn't built to withstand such weight of anger for a prolonged period of time. A prolonged period of time here had the meaning of fifteen minutes.  
  
Irene snorted, her eyebrows raising as he explained how he was going to get his friend Darrell elected. Right, she could just picture Ansel going door to door and talking to Parisians about voting. Pft, please. She shook her head, and immediately took a sip but it was too late; she knew her amusement had shone through.  
  
Irene sighed again as he suggested a little social experiment. She was witness to how the mere mention of the D'Grey's made people around them stiffen, flinch, turn to look. Even from here, she could feel Olivier's smug smirk. Ugh, well that was annoying, about as annoying as Ansel's.  
  
"I know their father built it a hundred years ago, do a lot...of mob things. And Tony hates it. That's about it," she cleared her throat, "so what? You want to bring down the business?"  
  
"Mob things." Ansel quotes her with his elbows on his thighs, fingers curling in the air. He mocks with affection, obviously. No, really though -- it wasn't as if he expects D'Grey walking around discussing intimate details of his drug cartel, let alone assault weapons gig.   
  
Shifting the chair back in to the circular little table, he feels something in his chest unclench. For a half moment, Irene had honestly smiled.  
  
"It's the single-most best-equipped Mafiosa still in operations dealing drugs, weapons, and vast-spread misinformation to glorify themselves," Ansel offers, glib, literally off hand as he waves his off through the air, chuckling once. "But yes, 'mob things.' Is there a reason you feel compelled to tell me Antonio claims to hate it?"  
  
Wait, he didn't know why he'd added that question. Flicking his nose before he buries it in the coffee mug, he finished it off in one long sip- gasp-ah. Amazing how many people behind him were edging their chairs away from him. Did any of them see horseman? D'Grey wasn't about to strike him down in lightning for speaking against him.  
  
(He was too subtle and clever for that, Ansel knew. Better to respect his enemy than otherwise).  
  
Cocking an eyebrow as he slowly sets the mug down, he speaks only after careful consideration.  
  
"Darling, were that my goal, saying so openly amounts in Paris to suicide."  
  
So, yes that was exactly it, yes. It couldn't be clearer in his gaze nor the underwritten smile he holds hers with. Pushing the finished mug away from him and cocking his head to match his eyebrow (he was a Frenchman, he matched.)  
  
"To answer your original question: I'm in the city because this is my home. I'm in the cafe, because I wished to speak with you. A friend of mine who works here, she knew that. Oddly enough, I have connections from school here the privileged mafiosa capo doesn't among the working class. She sent me a text, I gave her the day off and worked for the manager for free."  
  
Ansel's eyes were lighter than they had been in months, he wagers as he smiles at Irene.  
  
"That, is why I'm here." He opens his hands as if to say 'all of that is simple and to the point.' As if he wasn't acknowledging his strange, unique position on the Parisian's underground totem pole--as if he wasn't demonstrating that taboo name or not, Ansel (and the pack, they were one entity to him) was a thorn in D'Grey's side he hadn't detected in full yet. But he would.  
  
Clearing his throat, he adds, calm, but searching with gaze and tone, "You've remained friends with Stef. Admirable, considering." Did he have to clarify considering what?   
  
"It just...it made me think I should have trusted you could see past one's...less-than-human tendencies. You meant what you said about Alcott Brackner, and you've stuck by Stef...I should, have trusted you, and told you the truth much earlier. I'm sorry I didn't."  
  
"Yes," she replied back quickly, unashamed as she repeated, "mob things. You know what I mean." She cleared her throat again and took another sip of her coffee to find it empty. She sighed and then grabbed her clutch purse off her lap and opened it, taking out her compact and lipstick.  
  
Uncapping the bright red shade, she examined the rest of her make-up in the small mirror first, making sure that her eyeliner, eyeshadow, and mascara was flawless. It was, per usual. Moving an errant hair to the othe side of her head where it was supposed to be, she grabbed the lipstick and began to apply it while she listened.  
  
She wasn't aware that the D'Grey name was so feared and infamous. Irene wasn't well versed in wizard society, given that she only joined it five years ago, but in Paris it seemed it didn't matter whether you were a witch or not; you knew the D'Grey name and it was enough to stop everyone in a coffee house in their tracks.  
  
Smacking her lips once she was done, she closed the compact with a single finger, eyebrow arching as she surveyed Ansel once again.  
  
"You asked me what I know about it, that's what I know." It was an instant association. You say D'Grey Cartel, she said Tony hates it! D'Grey Cartel- Tony hates it! D'Grey Cartel- Tony hates it! Wow, that was a mouthful.  
  
"Well that's a yes," she breathed out, putting her lipstick and compact back in her purse and shutting it closed with a click, now suddenly wary. You know how some kids got so excited over pizza or things like that and bit off too large a piece for their mouths? Well, Ansel might have a big mouth, especially as an alpha werewolf, but that sounded like something too big for him to chew on alone.  
  
As he responded her question from before, her sudden movements and fiddle with her purse slowed until they stilled completely. Just like that? Just because?  
  
"So you didn't scare an unsuspecting cafe worker?" It was phrased as a question even though Irene knew the answer to it already. An excellent liar he might be, but he didn't lie to her then. That wasn't just wishful thinking, it couldn't have been.  
  
It's a sad day in the world when sticking by a friend while she went through the toughest time in her life was considered admirable. Irene guessed it had to seem that way to someone who was so used to running.  
  
His last words chipped away at the last of her resolve to be furious. Annoyance was still within reach, as was exasperation, one wrong word and she could latch on to anger again but Irene felt....relieved? Vindicated? For right now, she was going to stick to not furious.  
  
"You're forgiven," she told him speaking softer, though it was clear she meant just for this. He hadn't apologized for anything else, not directly. Was she even prepared to forgive him for everything else? (Yes, the answer was yes.)  
  
"It doesn't usually take people this long to realize how awesome I am, you know."  
  
"Oh, I know how he claims to hate it." Ansel waves it off. Once upon a time he'd believed him. Funny how farther angels had to fall than devil's had to rise wasn't it?  
  
Not that Antonio D'Grey had even been an angel.  
  
And that was all he wanted to think about that. As Irene continues, he realizes...it was all he had to; his breath stalls at her soft words. It even made him forget thinking how differently Stefanie and Irene did the same action of checking make-up in pocket mirrors.   
  
Forgiven? What a word. Lips plucking up in surprise, he forces them to look like he's going to whistle instead, but lacks the breath to go through it. With a small chuckle to force it out, he speaks through a head shake.   
  
"Can't say I've heard that before." Stefanie 'accepts apologies' with gritted teeth behind closed lips before they'd meet his hard. If you were lucky enough to have Hans forgive you, he still never forgot. It 'informed him' of how far he could trust you -- use you, rather, he tries to remind himself. The only exception he can think of was when his Maker took it upon himself to forgive him for something he had no right to. And of course, Colette couldn't forgive him with her throat ten feet from her neck.  
  
Morbid, he thinks bemused, corner of his lip twisting. But then, Ansel didn't apologize frequently, so he supposes in this case half the blame should rest on him.  
  
"And most people don't take so long to realize I'm not someone worth sticking around, Irene." Ansel chuckles drily, taking the hat back and slipping it back on his head.  
  
"After all no, I didn't bully some innocent cafe worker, but you're right to think I might've."   
  
He tilts his chin back, still surveying her with a softer smile. Her heart-rate had calmed significantly, he thinks, pondering at the absence.   
  
"No more questions? I must admit, I am a tad bit surprised you haven't asked for more background after an open invitation to pry. Not that I don't appreciate it, c'est vrai."   
  
Well, good to know that Tony wasn't the only one with thunderous distaste for Stefanie's other lover. How flattering that must be for Stef, whenever she wasn't busy being angry and annoyed at how stupid these boys were in respect to her, that was. Well, she really was an amazing woman, it wasn't surprising that these two men would be in conflict over her. Among other things, like Ansel believing Tony lied about his hate over the cartel. She wouldn't go near that with a thirty nine and a half foot pole.  
  
"First time for everything," she recounted with small amusement that quickly gave way to quiet examination. He had never heard the words said before, ever in his life? It certainly wasn't over a lack of doing wrong against other people, but maybe it had something to do with the fact that he also probably didn't apologize too often.  
  
Oh no, she had realized that already. Just because she was an idiot, didn't mean she was stupid.  
  
...Wait...  
  
Shaking her head quickly, Irene exhaled and then made sure to clarify, "I'm not doing any sticking around, Ansel. You just keep coming back." That's how she had to look at it.  
  
She relented, her lips curling into an exasperated smile, this time exasperated with herself, "Although, yes, I haven't exactly told you to stay away." She shook her head and then realized with a small 'oh!' and a lifted finger as she corrected, "Except maybe on that one voicemail." It was both not her finest hour and hot damn, was that her -finest- hour! Second only to the extended dance routine she made with her classmates. Too good.  
  
"Who said I was done with questions? Call me Aerosmith because you can dream on," she moved her hair out of her face with her painted nails, decorated in blue with snowflakes to celebrate the holiday cheer, despite the fact the holiday season had been over almost a month ago. Whatever, it was still cold.  
  
"There is one person I want to ask about, and I think you know who I'm talking about."  
  
She didn't have enough patience for him to tip-toe around it or say it himself so she continued, "Colette." And just when he had managed a sincere smile at her that wasn't smug or assuming, right after he said he appreciated not being grilled. Well, his discomfort was just the price he was going to have to pay.  
  
"Last time we talked about her...actually, you talked, and I got a concussion," she lifted her hand to scratch lightly at the post her soft head collided with hard stone. Thankfully, her hair covered her dent. That didn't mean it wasn't still there! Could she play that up so he would more readily divulge?  
  
"So I don't remember much, it's all terribly foggy, not helped by the alcohol poisoning, not to be confused with the poison that was in the alcohol," she said after a dramatic sigh and waving her hand in front of her face. Letting her hand fall on top of the table again as she looked at Ansel again.  
  
"I believed you then, by the way, that it was an accident. Your stupid eyes are the window to your tortured soul."  
  
"I have a guess," Ansel offers, mild and coy, but of course it doesn't matter. The chopped-blond strands strut in the air as she plows forward with a single name. He might never have spoken at all.   
  
Colette. The name she speaks sums up for him wild days -- days somehow wilder, somehow more alive, than any since for all his thrill-seeking, shapeshifting, concussion-giving, kidnapping, murder. She was just...more than that, she made everything more than that. Vividly he recalls. Flawless soft sun kissed hair. Wide sparkling wicked eyes. Soft luscious pouting lips, the lower jutting out more so than its twin, tantalizing and hypnotizing and the simple drag of a nail over his mouth as she'd straddle him and tell him to open wide, so she could place the little white pill right on his tongue.  
  
The flash of nostalgia hurt, like an aching pressure tight and squeezing, in his chest���������������������������around where his heart was, the one Irene had only just admitted he had.   
  
"Colette." Ansel echoes her, endeavoring to return from whatever great distance he felt he'd just travelled on whim. A small smile twists over his lips as he pats them back down, forces them down. There was no need to open wide; he wouldn't dwell on the ghostly nail he's felt scratching his tongue.  
  
Idly, he offers first, "You know it's short for Nicolette...not that anyone called her that. It means victory of the people. She dropped the victory part, ironic, but kept the 'of the people'--and if there exists a more apt description of her, I'm afraid words fail me."  
Ansel trails off, his hand picking up the sodden wood rod and tapping it against his thumb. It might not be silver, but, huh. If he pushed hard enough, he could skewer right through the nail.  
  
And then his earlier words came back to haunt him in full, making his gaze lift slowly over the bridge of his nose to hers, hardened and heavy.   
  
She was right. Irene, for some strange fucked up reason, is always right. The blonde goddess reminded him of a simpler times, of a more ... everything, time. Irene distracts him, whether by her glaring obvious beauty, or the lush pouting lips or by the fact that she was just as ruined as he was. Kindred spirits and whatnot.  
  
(Oh, that was just wishful thinking. She wasn't as ruined as him. And ask him on a better day, he might even admit he didn't want her to be.)  
  
A slow nod accompanies her words, an abrupt chuckle near bursting from his dry, raw throat. After a few interminable moments of just looking at her, he speaks, resuming tap-tap-tapping.  
  
"It was an accident." Ansel repeats duller this time. And he shouldn't have told her that then or even now; what was the point?   
  
(He reminds himself that every friend he could have who the D'Greys liked could be useful and maybe eventually he'll convince himself that was the reason he wanted to be friends with Irene. Except he doesn't. She knows him better than that, and she wouldn't let himself getting away with refusing to know himself any longer.)  
  
He echoes her as he confirms with a head tilt, "I was telling the truth then; eyes or not. It was an accident. I didn't...want, to hurt her, the way it startes I was just trying to protect her. And I've made damn sure I've been in control of every decision in my life ever since."  
  
Could he have put more plainly 'Kidnapping you was no accident, nor the concussion, or the alcohol poisoning? Nor was letting her go?'  
  
Voice still low, he continues, "What do you want to know about her, darling? Did I love her? Yes. Did I kill her? Yes." His eyebrow pops to the center of his forehead as he points out, "Sensing a pattern? I befriended you, I gave you a concussion. I slept with Stefanie, she kills herself the next day."  
  
Ansel clears his throat.  
  
"Or did you simply want to ask, who was she? Colette, going on seven years ago now, she was my girlfriend, before I was bitten, and for a time being after."   
  
Irene wasn't a very sentimental person. She didn't take a bunch of pictures to commemorate memories, and she didn't collect things (unless you counted people, and according to Nadia she did but that was a discussion for another time). She wasn't sensitive either. She watched Titanic and didn't shed a tear. Or when Mufasa died, (Long Live The King- still sent a shiver down her spine), or when Quasimodo was humiliated and abused in the public square. For all her human connections, ones she constantly sought out and formed, Irene never considered herself as such.  
  
So it turned out to be a real surprise to her that the wide spectrum of emotion that crossed Ansel's name at one name left her heartbroken. How many times had she damned him already, twice? Damn him thrice for making her want to stand up and crush him into a hug. She remained sitting instead, prompting no further to see what he would say first.  
  
Last year for Halloween, of rather two years ago because it was January, she had gone as Sheila Holmes. In order to prepare for her role (because she always went all out, Halloween was tied for first for her favorite holiday), Irene had done some research. Stuck at school, where technology was banned because apparently witches and wizards still lived in the dark ages, she had been forced to read the original stories instead of watching adaptions. Irene reached (note: skipped ahead) to A Scandal In Bohemia, where the reader is introduced to her namesake (probably not her namesake, but then she'd never gotten an opportunity to talk her mother about most things let alone measly little things like that), Irene Adler. To him, she quoted perfectly, She eclipses and  predominates the whole of her sex. Damn, right? That was really good. Well, that's all she could think about right now. The way he spoke of her and the way he looked as he did carried that same sentiment.  
  
She didn't know what was more tragic, the fact that he had killed the woman he felt that way about, or the fact that he probably built her up to that level after he had killed her. Like Irene has already said, she wasn't a therapist, so there was no way for her to know and no way for her to ask if she wanted him not to freeze up.   
  
He repeated the words to her, that it was an accident, that he didn't want to hurt her, even though she already knew that and told him she believed. Nevertheless, she nodded, accepting the truth once again, in case he needed to see it for himself. Hearing him say that he was in full control of everything else that happened after he had done so shockingly didn't make her feel better. That was sarcastic, by the way. Unshockingly.  
  
"A woman isn't defined by her relationship to other men. I don't want hear 'my girlfriend', I want to hear about the girl. And I want to know what made you angry enough to lose control."  
  
Interest piqued by the pointed prelude she offers her next question, Ansel pauses. A woman isn't defined by her relationship to men?  Schooling him in feminism at the same time as prying into the most personal - he might even say the pinnacle - details of his past...interesting strategy. Most would say 'not smart', but he was forced to think what he meant to do stating she was his old girlfriend.  
  
And yes, it had been to sum her up by default, but he knows it was more an attempt to sum a conversation up he didn't want to have. Or rather, that he was uncomfortable having. If Ansel didn't want it, he wouldn't have spoken at all. Why, how masochistic. Worry creeps up his spine, thought mentally snagging on the rim of his ear. Masochism was his old refuge. He refused to think abandoning Hans meant abandoning all his teachings on better ways to live: in joy of the present moment. Society names us monsters, so we revel in monstrosity. The best revenge is living well.  
  
Breathing out, he nods, still smiling in pleasure of Irene's intuition. Yes, Darling, it was anger that made me lose it, but.  
  
"Mm..Anger as the catalyst ah, yes. I would say it was also fear,  egregious envy, and...hurt. The same hurt you speak of in my betraying your friendship, actually."  
  
That seems cruel to say, but then, that was why he did. It compared her to him, but rather than in empathy, seems to dare her that she could be so capabale as well. Monstrosity wasn't just the physical beast-in fact, the bestial was the most basic.  
  
Tipping his mug on it's head, he balances the wood stirrir atop it before reaching for sugar packets. He doesn't resume speaking until he's begun building a house a la Splenda.   
  
"I can only speak to the Colette I knew, cheri. Her status as my girlfriend wasn't the only status we knew though, oui, c'est vrai. Let's see. I suppose our long tragedy would begin with my older brother. Ah-" He pauses building, finger lifting as he catches himself and looks at her, "-the natural, one, that is. Gabriel. Ah, wait." He pauses again, now smirking as he pushes the packets off the mug and corrects aloud, "L'Dotore, Gabriel Dorat."  
  
Father was proud of that, after all.  
  
"I attended a private school here in the city," he offers with another balancing act of packets begun, fingers flicking off, "as did Darrell, as did one Daniella Faye, though she was younger than me and prone to skipping--I knew her vaguely as Darrell's little sister's best friend. Ah--slash, Extremely Bad Influence, all caps."   
  
He winks. Then resumes.  
  
"Those of us with any magical inclination, of which I had, of which Gabe suppresses, well. We had other classes for it, secret. It was the elite of the school...and it was Colette, who would be the first to decry the elite. Part of being, you know," his smirk was softening, "with the Establishment. Colette was on a scholarship. Colette was Extremely Bad Influence, all caps again, a la Ansel."   
  
His hand strikes at his chest as he meets her gaze again, tilts his head. Eyes still green, he continues, "The secret classes? They did ah--," the  glint in his grey-green eyes wasn't smiling the same way his mouth was, "little, to teach any actual useful magic. They were all about control and suppression. I wonder!" He points at her with the sugar packet, "if D'Grey wrote the curriculum himself, to ensure he's never challenged...ah, well, whoops, didn't work. He's dead."  
  
Not that a hunter killing him had anything to do with the damn empire dying out or anything. Or anything to do with Colette, so he shrugs it off, resumes building his packet castle, resumes the story.  
  
"Anyway, Colette, ah I'm afraid I can't offer much background on her before what would be the rom com's 'Meet Cute.' I ignored her. She was gorgeous, but she lived on making herself unpopular, making herself anti-conventional, so much so she made it a convention honestly-and I, was on the basket ball team, wingman to Gabe, captain. Mal, it sounds like I'm pitching a terrible Rom Com--may I please fast forward?"  
  
He doesn't wait for permission. Alphas don't. (Gabriel never did.)  
  
"Jock Boy meets Manic pixie dream girl. She shows him what's really out there. But of course eventually it goes wrong, she goes too far, and he returns to the Establishment having learned his important lesson. Ha. Yeah, no. That's how my darling padre would have liked it to go. Non. In actuality? Let's see. I get in a fight with Gabe. Colette punches Gabe. I try to hold him back, failing that, I stay and help her clean up. She notices the book I had on comedia d' l'arte in my bag, invites me to an underground showing. I tell her I wouldn't be part of her attempt to  spite my golden boy brother's glory by stealing me. But, alas, I was in a fight, when I went home and was reamed out for it, I walked out and had nowhere else to go, so..."  
  
He shrugs off, but his eyes and voice are distant with memory painful. Haunted.  
  
"She reamed me too for showing up at the film festival, but in a kind way. Colette wanted to be an actress. Fast forward the liberation I felt in a secret romance with her, the parties we went to. Fast forward my grades falling, my father's disappointment, my brother telling me I was throwing everything away--because no I wasn't, she, was showing me more. She volunteered at animal shelters, she sang in her church choir.   
  
You're right, Irene. Colette wasn't meant to service my tragedy, my growth, me in anyway. She was destined for greatness, her potential was limitless. I was the one who couldn't keep up with her. She introduced me to...partying, I grew addicted. Colette knew no limits. She knew that curriculum was bogus, but she taught herself control to allow herself more freedom magic wise, while I learned just to break boundaries; she was always someone who pushed for more, more fun, more sex, more of life. La vie boheme. That was Colette."  
  
Ansel was speaking very fast, cutting off with a stab in the air of his hand. Jabbing the rod forward, he accidentally punctures one of the sugar packets. Even as crystals spill free, it balances. Haha! He almost laughs at it.  
  
"And, I'm the one who stole her ability to be anything now but my tragedy, my 'accident', my old tattered photograph, me, my, mine." He snorts. "Though it's not for a few years later. I did get addicted. I did get pretty fucked up. But then, so did she. I was still scared of my brother's shadow. I had a game coming up, and there was a mandatory drug test... the game passes -- we won, by the way. My brother follows us to a party. That's when Gabe tells me he paid off the drug tester. He convinced me not to take the hits I had; threw the shit away. Few days pass. Enter withdrawal. Enter her throwing more away, her and Gabe constantly fighting -- I don't know, I forget the specific details. Like I said, fucked up."  
  
He chuckles, eyes darkening with every word, mouth twisting up.  
  
"Anyway, one night, I was withdrawing...Gabe followed us to the woods. I'm 17 at this point, just fyi. Colette was angry enough he wouldn't trust her not to give me more drugs--which, by the way, we went out by ourselves to avoid temptation--they got in an argument, I got in the argument, Gabe swears he won't cover anymore, threatens to get her thrown off the scholarship, I punch him, we fight, Colette leaves after pulling us apart. Then I leave Gabe. But withdrawing, so, I don't make it home. And...then," he takes a breath, pointing at her with the last sugar packet, then speaks as he lays it on top.  
  
"Enter Hans."  
  
That made Irene bristle, leaning back in her chair as she considered what he said. She had told him he had no idea how angry, furious, he made her, but she had forgotten that as a werewolf, Ansel was more than familiar with blinding rage fueled by hurt. It made her wonder whether she would have wolfed out earlier if she could have. She thought she knew herself well enough to know she'd never do that. After all, look at her now. She could have stayed angry with him, chosen to try and make him hurt like she had, but instead she was holding out an open hand.  
  
Irene's eyebrow rose as he heard he an actual brother, not one he had in a pack and just called brother. A brother that was successful, that Irene could understand. Gordon was a lawyer, and her father seemed to believe most of the time he was his only child. In direct contrast, Irene wanted to open up a bar after she was done was school. There were two types of people.  
  
As soon as Ansel described himself as part of the elite of a private school, she had an idea of what Colette would be like. He was right, at the beginning it was selling like a rom com so of course, Colette would be the black sheep. As she heard a little more about her, Irene realized she would have liked the girl even if Colette would have hated her. Purposefully unpopular, driven, unsheltered, Irene was glad she was finding only small similarities between the two of them. She had to wonder because it was painfully obvious the similarities between herself and Stefanie. If anything, she was finding more similarities in Ansel and herself than anybody else.  
  
Irene realized the real tragedy here was nothing that she spoke before, it was what Ansel had said; that this girl had died and become a part of Ansel's story instead of having one herself.  
  
She watched him as he absently built a house of sugar packets while he continued. Sheltered jock (he was a basketball player, that was blowing her mind) meets wild child to escape the pressures of an asshole of a father and an older brother shining too big a shadow. Turns to partying and drugs (Irene at least avoided the latter, except for booze), and starts slipping.  
  
But he had been getting cleaned, it sounded like both of them were, and that Gabriel was...harsh, but as a receiver of tough love, Irene could understand him too. Who knows? Maybe Ansel would have gotten completely clean, would have gotten his life on track with Colette, if one werewolf hadn't chosen to take himself for a walk through the park that night.  
  
"Out from behind one shadow, and into another," she spoke quietly, her words potentially harsh and brutal, but always true. Call it her retaliation for that comment he made earlier about their anger and hurt being the same.  
  
"And he promised you...what? Control?" Ironic. As, unless Irene's timeline was off (and it was really difficult to do mental math with years), that was before they had the potion Harper made.   
  
Control, ha, well once again Irene wasn't wrong...just, early. He thinks at the back of his mind she was just fast forwarding more than him. Thanking her for unknowingly following his wishes (was that what it felt like? When Hans made people agree with him, when D'Grey did?), Ansel sits up straighter. Rueful and smiling, he imagines his head shake wasn't a surprise to her.   
  
"Hans promised nothing. See, the thing about my foster brother Irene, is that he understands the real meaning of choice better than anyone. The cost of when that most basic of necessities, survival, is no longer a foregone conclusion, or indeed, is impossible under previous conditions. He had made himself a promise, that he would never do to anyone what had been done to him -- he would never lie, never wield compassion for the sword it is, would never promise something he had naught to give."  
  
That was as much of his old maker's past as Ansel was willing to share, but it didn't matter, did it? Irene asked for his story. Ansel was finding himself peculiarly pleased with the idea his was the one to know, and sharing much more than he'd ever intended.   
  
"Control," he says, spinning a sugar packet slowly over his fingers, letting it slip over his knuckles and almost fall before his wrist would snap, palm twist, and catch. He did it again, and again. "Control comes from within. Control comes from understanding your plight, your fears, the horrible truth of what reckless action would cost you and an accurate assessment of your resources versus what you truly want. He can't do that for you. And at this point, he didn't have the potion you're familiar with, Irene, he was 18. No, Hans didn't promise me anything. He just listened."  
  
A dryness in his words, he twists his smile up again and drops the packet. Pinching it, he adds to the base of his little Splenda house. Like Irene was doing now, he thinks. Ha! Hans just listened, and he remade himself in the moon's light (she was wrong for once; that wasn't a shadow.) Irene listens now.  
  
He was all right with that. Ansel had neglected to mention Colette had him act in her little films; neglected to bring up his own love of theater and photography. After all, it wasn't accurate where it was with Colette to say he wanted to be an actor.   
  
That was exactly what he became.  
  
"Did I leave out that it was a full moon? I think so. His nineteenth, I believe. He'd overheard our argument, but he didn't show himself until he saw me fall. See that's the other thing about Hans, Irene, he tends not to be able to resist helping a person whose world is falling apart."  
  
That had gotten reserved for more literal situations, Ansel thinks; Hans had begun refusing to assist those who only felt incapable. It was one of their first clashes as friends.   
  
Tilting his head, he concludes mild enough, "Hans recognized the track marks from a stint he did in faux-rehab facility as a teenager -- not because he did drugs, understand, but because his father wished to scare him. Or something like that, I don't know," Ansel waves it off, "but he was clean. He was basically sober, despite the amount he drank with me. It amazed me. I was enthralled by this idea it could be possible to be that...alive, that on the edge, without any evidence, without any downside -- well, of withdrawal. Which he'd given me some potion for, and a blanket. That alone would have made me love him, I wager. We talked, we drank...the moon got higher. When he started telling me to go, I insisted I wouldn't until he told me...how, and then he started transforming. I figured it out. And to me, it seemed ...logical, and wondrous."  
  
Ansel's more wolfish smile was back, eyes grey-green, skin yellowing around them.  
  
"Being a wolf, it is exactly, everything he described. It is like spending life high, without sickness if you ignore the constant fever, without weakness. Senses are sharper, colors and tastes and scents especially - richer. Of course it required a DNA change of sorts to...be that, way, of course there was a cost--humans can't handle it."  
  
Ansel shrugs. He was leaving out the real cost for now; the first shock of the pain involved transforming rendered itself painless comparatively. It was already obvious to her what his cost would be.  
  
"He told me if I stayed, he'd bite me, it was my choice. I stayed."  
  
Hans wasn't Irene's favorite person. And that put it mildly, actually, what was she doing? No, she would say it like it is: Hans was a dick who scared the living daylights out of her and who was too fucked up for even Irene to understand. She left that to Eliza, and whatever the pair of them had shared together. Irene could only handle one tortured soul at a time, thank you very much.  
  
And even after turning on him, because apparently leaving people behind was familiar to him, Ansel still talked off his sire and werewolf brother with a positive light. At least it was positive enough to make Irene feel uncomfortable, and that was a difficult thing to do.  
  
Not a liar? Of course not, but he kept some truths to chest, manipulated other truths until they worked as well as lies, and this is only what she knew from hearsay! Otherwise she would say more.  
  
"There's a huge difference between being an honest person and not telling lies. You were 17, in withdrawal, drunk, not in your right mind, angry, etc. If we substitute the bite of a werewolf for sex, which is the symbolism in a lot of stories by the way, then what he did would have amounted to date rape. Just, saying." She wrinkled her nose and covered her arms in front of her chest as she weighed it again in her mind silently.  
  
Bastards. She hated them both. Especially knowing she was only hearing one part of the story, and she hated that. Fuck them, fuck Ansel. Didn't he know he didn't have to manipulate her to get her to accept him? Actually, no, he probably didn't.  
  
And like she had said, there was a difference between being honest and not lying. He hadn't lied about anything he had said to her, at least he better not have, that punkbitch motherfucker otherwise she was cutting off his tail herself, but he was still distant. It was a difficult subject, she understood and was surprised he'd reveal that much. But she still wanted to know more.  
  
"Did you tell her about being bitten?"  
  
That, just makes him laugh, quick and hot and something fierce.  
  
"So, my pointing out I literally asked for it won't help much, huh?"  
  
Seriously though, he wasn't surprised that was her reaction. As if it hadn't been his choice to drink, to get high, to be in the forest...and even his anger, well, if he'd been less sensitive to his flawless brother's (entirely accurate) criticisms? Ansel wasn't sure why she was so eager to paint him without agency that night -- Irene might be a miracle worker, but she wasn't there to save his 'tortured soul.'  
  
Bemused, he continues with a little headshake.   
  
"Not initially. I didn't tell anyone. Hans' orders." Ansel rolls another sugar packet between forefinger and thumb as he contemplates if he should strengthen the base or balance one more off the mug.  
  
 "After all, anyone he turned belonged to Religion, Magic and Murder, Inc. Or whatever they called themselves."   
  
He settled for skewering the packet on the rod and letting it hang there, like a flag. Gaze meeting hers once more, Ansel licked his lip.  
  
"But she found out. Pretty obvious something happened obviously--I presume you remember with the pup." Not that Brackner was a pup any longer, but, bygones. He waves his hand. "She realized right before the full moon...and she thought it was genius. I told her I would talk to Hans about it...but he, rather wisely, told me to talk to him in the morning. After I'd been through it."  
  
And Ansel lets out a low, low whistle, smirking as his eyes darken.  
  
"There was...no way, I was biting her, or anyone was going near her-," ha! haha!, oh irony, "-once I knew what that transformation was like. I took Wolfsbane, but all that really does is make it so you know the pain. Losing your mind, becoming the animal...those are refuges. A human mind isn't meant to be aware of that. Like being wide awake during open-heart surgery without anesthetic."  
  
His finger sweeps through spilled crystals, picking them up one by one before depositing them to linger on his tongue.   
  
"She was angry, I wouldn't budge...then, Hans tells me there might be a way to transform painlessly soon." He shrugs that away, dry as he whispers under our breath, "An angel on our side..."  
  
He grits his back teeth. Harper snatching the potion away amounts to nothing more than spiteful selfishness in his mind. What had Ansel ever done to him? Of the pack, Allison and Hans dealt the most with him -- and hadn't turning on Hans demonstrated most of them had no intention of using the man?  
  
Letting out another breath to calm, he folds his arms back down on the table and looks Irene straight on once more.  
  
"The night of my second transformation, Colette went with us. She said she wanted to be with me." And oh, he could hear how Irene's heart was skipping, breath tightening. Smile lifting, he coos, soothes, "Relax, darling. She lives almost two years after that night.  See, when my brother saw us going out, he lost it. Naturally assumed we were going to get high. He confronted Colette in the woods after she left Hans and me. I ran across them. Must have deduced she was in danger, not sure, I blacked out Wolfsbane or not. Colette, I didn't touch." And oh now the irony was climbing.  
  
Mild, "Gabe, I put in the hospital. Found out when I woke up the next afternoon."  
  
The conversational way he spoke ignores (or spites?) the simple skipped beat of his heart. But Ansel smiles.  
  
"That was the end of Hans being able to hide turning me from Tax-free Torture Inc, naturally. And I realized, staying home, I was putting everyone in danger so long as I couldn't control it. They were sending Hans to Africa for something, I joined him on the flight. Went straight from the hospital to the airport, never saw my parents or any of my teammates or friends. Colette figured out where I'd be though, don't worry, in the movie there'd be I imagine a beautifully shot scene in the Internationals terminal at De Gaulle."  
  
They could debate about that until the cows came home but at the end of the day, Ansel would always insist he made that choice. And he did, he made every choice leading up to it, the choice to stay: all stupid. He didn't know what he was doing, or what he was getting into it, but he still chose to go through with it. Fine. Because making a bad choice would always be better than being manipulated to think you ever had a choice in the first place. Irene was making assumptions and drawing conclusions on what she was given, so she knew she was far from accurate but even still, she totally rocked at this.  
  
She tried to hold back laughter at his creative name for those evil bastards, she really did. The weirdest strangled noise left her mouth while her nose exhaled a sudden gust of air, but a hand over her mouth didn't stop the laugh.   
  
"Oh, God," she shook her head, sighing and moving her hair out of her eyes, "that wasn't even funny." It was clever, bitter, pretty accurate, but not funny even though she laughed. It made sense, it really did.  
  
Irene tried to remember Alcott as a newly turned werewolf, even if she hadn't known he was one until six months later. They still hadn't become the bestest of friends they were now (it was difficult to imagine a time without Alcott Brackner in her life actually, and she knew damn straight the same applied to him about her), but he was off. And way too hot, his muscles expanded like someone blew up a doll with too much air.  
  
No, what she knew about it, she got more from Reid's first month. He had gone through his first full moon already. Whenever he and Alisha weren't fucking, because that's all they seemed to be doing these days, Irene just wanted to cuddle Reid. She had to watch out, pretty soon she might start collecting werewolves too.  
  
"She what?" Oh my God, girl was cray cray! How does that...appeal to someone nor- oh, well, there you have it. Colette was never normal, she was insatiable. Sex, drugs, rock n roll, and apparently, lycanthropy.  
  
She was glad that Ansel had refused to bite her then, even though she knew how it ended and it didn't really end up mattering. Potion or not, from an Angel on their side (and he was never on their side, that had already been proven), choosing to become a werewolf was insane.   
  
Choosing to stay with a werewolf? Still insane, but in a good way. Irene didn't audibly aww, mostly because she was too worried thinking that was it, that was the night she died, but no Ansel set her straight there. Irene felt no relief. She knew what would come, and it was horrible. Not to mention, that night was filled with horror of its own.  
  
Irene breathed out, hearing him say he left with Hans after that, left everybody behind without a goodbye except for Colette. This time his creative name was answered with a snort instead of a laugh. He left his brother in the hospital after putting him there, and just left. Irene was right.  
  
"Well I was insulted before but now I understand, it's not personal, you leave everybody." Except Stef, well, the first time around. Yeah, she had gotten that story, but that wasn't the point of the current conversation.  
  
Bringing her gaze up from his artistic construct, she nodded, "But you came back to her."  
  
Both eyebrows hike to the middle of his forehead at the way she phrases that, lips tightening and pursing. Yes, he supposed in that instance, seventeen, a wolf and yet still a pup, he had left everyone. Just as leaving Irene at the Gala had constituted quite a bit of difficulty on his end with Roswell (It was uncomfortable to remember Hans had been the one to step in)--yet it was for the best.   
  
With a small lip-twitch, he muses aloud, "I was laboring under the apparently false conception that leaving you was equivalent to letting you go."  
  
Well, except for the bodyguards, but it had been his responsibility. He'd chosen to save Stef instead. Some job he did saving her, too, handing her over to Antonio. Their resultant torrid affair had been irksome enough when it was jealousy alone--now? When the bastard got her brother killed and let her turn herself into a bloodsucking corpse?  
  
Ansel's teeth gnash. What use was this train of thought, that was the better question. Time to shove the barn door open, they discovered their stowaways.   
  
"I did." He says, slow and quiet. "After I took the potion. See, I'd made her a promise. Once I had control, once it was painless, I'd return...and then we could do it together, if she still wanted to. I was nineteen when we returned."  
  
He's taken the last sugar packet in the cup, but his finger still digs around for more.  
  
"Hans and I had been joined by Zach and Melissa, but neither of them had any interest in our hierarchy, they didn't care about the war brewing here in Paris. Hell, I didn't either. We came back because the potion was here, met our angel...and while Hans received his bloody marching orders, I slipped out."  
  
He pushes the last packet towards the stack, but doesn't touch it yet. His eyes were darker still, but thinking of how Colette was when he showed up? Of her swan's neck, her gold curls, those kitten heels and the dress too small...and how many photos he made her take of the two of them that night?  
  
No, he couldn't share that. He wouldn't. Their last night was his and his alone now.  
  
"I actually found her little sister first. Colette had moved out a few months ago for art school, but, her sister neglected to tell me she was living with a guy. Actually," the slow grin was back to crawling across his lips as he remarks in clear bitterness, "you know, she must have neglected to mention that too!"  
  
After gesturing up to the ceiling with that last packet, he pushes it back down to his little masterpiece, certain she could see where this was going now.  
  
"When she saw me, she lit up. Probably went from overjoyed to furious in a heartbeat." So she turned it to lust, like Colette always did. She grabbed him, kissed him, ripped clothes off, climbed, clung. Those gold curls went everywhere, her mauve lipstick marked every inch of his neck and chin until he sticks to her more with gloss than sweat. Losing one of his shoes and breaking what transpired to be the first lamp of the night, that reunion was flames and heartbreak at it's worst -- and best.   
  
Best too.  
  
"We went to sleep in her bed. After spending hours upon hours talking that is, yet somehow?"  
  
Hours talking about all he'd seen in Uganda. Hours talking about where they could run to. Hours talking about art school and putting on free shows for life in Zimbabwe, about running from the pack to be together. He hadn't needed Ang--Harper's potion when he had her.  
  
Ansel clears his throat, looking at her as he tips the stirrir and the Splenda packet castle begins to collapse.  
  
"She doesn't mention her boyfriend until he comes charging in." Down the packets fall, one by one, spilling more sugar, scattering ripped pastel little papers all over the table, some on the floor. Ansel smiles as he watches them, still recounting dully.   
  
"But then, neither of us gave her much time to explain. He was shouting, she started snapping about things to this day I still don't know about, but hey, I knew enough to figure out the guy was scum. This guy - Vinci - he just hauled me out of bed, very bad idea by the way, if she hadn't pleaded with me I'd have lost it then. But, then he went to haul her out too. Worse idea. She starts telling him they weren't exclusive, that she knew about him and Serra...though," and he smirks wide, "you know, it was her telling him I was a better fuck that set him off. He grabbed her arm again."  
  
Ansel paused. The packets had stopped falling.   
  
"And then I blacked out, transformed. The next thing I remember..."  
  
He couldn't see any Splenda or spilled sugar on the wood grain now, not ripped paper or wood little stirrirs. He sees smashed glass, torn polyester sheets, and a broken window. He sees blood splatters (he licks his finger tip), crushed bits of bone, eyeballs rolling in their juice across her carpet. There had been so many body parts around him he couldn't tell them apart. Honestly, he always wondered about it. Had Colette leaped in front of the bastard?  
  
No, he wants to growl, more likely he used her for a human shield.   
  
It's not for a few moments longer that Ansel realizes the blonde hair he's looking at is straight and too short to be the soft, sun-kissed curls he remembers vividly in his hand. Thumb curling in the corner of his lip, he meets Irene's eyes and smiles.  
  
"Next thing I remember they were both dead. And I got out of there. So there you go, Irene. The whole, sordid, gory story. Tiny piece of advice, do tell Stefanie you already know. She finds out we've talked she just might leap into overprotective mode again and decide to warn you off by sending the crime scene photos and...trust me on this at least, you don't want to."  
  
His nose wrinkles with distaste as he clears his throat again and cleans the packets up, sweeping them back into the cup with one, casually graceful sweep.  
  
"Met her next, by the way, in Salzburg. Didn't know she was Hans' little sister--well, course I didn't. He had no family, that's what we were told." This, was a much happier memory he thinks, bemused smirk back as he sets the cup back up.   
  
"If you want all the sordid details of the two of us at that summer's music festival, might I suggest it would be much more enjoyable somewhere more private where I can whisper it in your ear?"  
  
"What can I say, I'm a catch," she shrugged her shoulders, speaking lightly enough simply so she could have something say. Silence didn't suit Irene, neither did lies, or donuts. God, how she hated donuts.  
  
Irene jotted in her mind the timeline, placing a sticky note two years later and marking it with 'Ansel returns'. Maybe if he kept talking she'd actually be able to figure out how old he really was because this was confusing. Anyways, that wasn't the point.  
  
Oddly enough, she had thought that Rachelle and...what was the other's name, Ashley? Alissa?, anyhow, Irene had thought they had joined after Ansel, before anyone else. They were after all the Big Four, or they had been. Now Hans and Rachelle had vanished (Rachelle didn't take her calls), and Ainsley must still be with Ansel. It just went to show you, even self-chosen families could split apart.  
  
Colette had a sister? Did she know about the real reason for Colette's death? Had they been close? Where was she right now? These were all questions that she wanted answered but would have to go elsewhere. Not only did she not want to distract Ansel from his narration, she didn't want him to think she was prying. Further. Even though she was.  
  
A boyfriend. Well, ouch. It had been two years after all. What was Colette supposed to do, wait forever? She didn't know whether Ansel would ever come back, probably didn't even know if he had been alive until that night. That must have been really good reunion sex. She didn't make the comment aloud, didn't want to mock it or pry. It was their last night together, and Irene had downgraded to only being half of a bitch to Ansel.  
  
Bye bye, Splenda castle, she thinks sadly. It was always going to end this way. Ansel destroys everything he builds and didn't need anyone to do it for him; his tragedy.   
  
A shiver ran down her spine as he finally got to the horrible part. The part where all that anger, jealousy, and betrayed hurt culminated into a breaking point. As a former addict, Irene imagined he couldn't have had much control to begin with. Not to mention, werewolves very extremely protective of their mates. The comment about Colette emasculating her boyfriend made her snort though. Men and their egos. Then she took it back. That guy, Vinci, yeah maybe he had been bad but Ansel wasn't a fucking ray of sunshine. And now he was dead. Along with Colette, because Ansel couldn't control himself.  
  
Irene breathes out, leaning back into her chair again as if she had just gone through strenuous exercise, even though the most exercise she ever got was jogging her way in platform pumps to the nearest sale. What could she even say to that?  
  
"Thank you for telling me," she started with that, suddenly wishing she had another latte, or at least something warm that would make the gooseflesh on her arms disappear.  
  
Scoffing, she shook her head as he moved rather quickly and proceeded to be a dick again, not that he ever stopped, and then just stared at him with her eyebrows raised.  
  
"I'll pass. And if you ever violate my personal space again, I'm kicking you in the balls." She smiled wide, bright, and then she was serious again after a sigh.  
  
"We need real drinks. I'd buy you one now, but I'm running late. Plus this time, -I- get to leave. Rain check?"  
  
Standing, she took out a few euros and placed them on the table to pay for the drink, disregarding his earlier wish of him paying. Pursing her lips together briefly, she looked at the stupid hat on his head again and shook her own head disapprovingly.  
  
"Hideous. Anyways," her expression softened as she looked at him before she narrowed her eyes again, and lifted a finger in front of his face warningly, "People don't walk in and out of my life just like that, so darling you've got to let me know." Must.keep.from singing. "Decide now, aloud, stay or go." If he goes there will be troubleeee, and if he stays it will be doubleeee (Lord knows that's right).  
  
"I'll watch out for the Jimmy Choos," Ansel remarks, oddly still for him. It had been years since he was anything but restless. Stagnation meant danger of remembering; danger of living in any way that contradicting the spirit of who Colette has been. It was already his fault she never saw the Pyramids. He wouldn't let himself live anti to how she would have wanted him to, not anymore, not even to punish himself.   
  
And yet right now, he hasn't moved, hasn't blinked, isn't entirely sure he's even heard the gratitude for...what, telling her the story? Because she needed a new horror story for the campfire?   
  
(He didn't say that aloud because he was too busy being touched and amazed that she had thanked him. And forgiven him. That too. Though she forgave him for something else entirely; he didn't miss the distinction.)  
  
So he just nods back, accepting gratitude he still needs to process she actually offered him. The Euros she pushes to pay for the coffee amuses him, but he leaves them alone, chuckling once. Then again, when she tells him she gets to be the one to leave.   
  
"Ah, well, I do have the rest of the shift to cover, darling."   
  
He stills again as she points at him. As every aspect of his story should have screamed at her, that was a question he shouldn't be asked. Stand too close to fire, you'll always be burned-and Ansel ran a constant temperature over a hundred and five.   
  
Flicking tongue over his lip, he remarks softer, "You have my number, Irene. Call it, should you ever wish to. Ah," his finger raises as he continues, now smirking again, "Excepting, if you need a volunteer wolf to practice those aneurysms on. If it's not wolf-specific though, I do have a few suggestions..."  
  
Ansel trails off, playful and enjoying the view of the domineering, strength of her as she gave him the ultimatum from cherry red lips. It's saved forever in the back of his mind.   
  
"And thank you." He crumples the napkin up, proving his prowess at basketball as he scores two points in the nearby rubbish bin. Idly at the back of his mind, he wonders if Gabriel would have somehow figured out he was here telling her all their families past. If he did, it was likely his sweet brother would contact Irene before him.   
   
"For listening. I trust I don't have to implore you not to share it."  
  
For some reason she had expected more wit, more smirk, more of him being an impossible, insufferable prick. She would have preferred it to how calm he suddenly he got. She was even telling him what to do without him being angry. Then again he wasn't second in command now, he was alpha. Now that he was secure in his authority, he didn't need to worry about sixteen year old girls trying to undermine him. He'd realize his mistake one day.  
  
His answer wasn't to her satisfaction, but she had a feeling he knew that. He liked to tease her. But instead of using his body, he used aspects of his personality. Never followed through, left her anxious always to learn more. It wasn't bloody fair!  
  
At the mention of the aneurysms again, her expression floated between a beam and a smirk before she decided to change it abruptly into a frown, "I have a feeling who." And no. Period. The end. Not happening.  
  
Taking her coat off the back of the chair and putting it on. "I wouldn't be opposed to a little begging but no," she assured him, "I won't tell." Which was going to be a real problem, because who else was going to stop her from doing something stupid like seek out his brother or Colette's sister? Lord, give her the self-restraint to keep her cute little nose out of this.  
  
The Lord's voicemail inbox was full, her message wasn't getting through.  
  
Smiling, she used the pointing finger, and the rest of her hand, to squeeze his shoulder, "See you around." Irene raised the hand again and waved with her fingers, slipping the hand into the pocket of the coat. Suddenly realizing, she turned on her heels and asked.  
  
"Wait...and your mother?" She asked, realizing belatedly he hadn't mentioned her. A normal person would have probably noticed the absence of a mother figure sooner, but as someone with a mother in a near constant catatonic state, Irene thought it normal.  
  
"Your father's an asshole, your brother's...harsh," and she thought with good intentions, "what about your mother?"  
  
Though Ansel makes a face as if surprised by the statement, he truly wasn't. It had been a bit of a calculated risk to reach out to Irene (her boyfriend wasn't likely to send him Christmas cards any time soon), but not much of one. Something had told him she'd keep this quiet before he carried the coffee over.  
  
Remarking brightly, "I won't forget you offered me a drink, darling," with a wink and a smirk, he was surprised by the sudden additional question on his mother.  
  
"My mother?"   
  
Brows furrowing together as he shifts in the chair again, ignoring that the woman in the corner was still listening behind her newspaper (he'd make sure she forgot what she eavesdropped on to hear soon enough). Ah. Well that's one way to sum it up. He chuckles.  
  
"Oh, both very true. Though. My father's as driven as I am," he says slowly, though something hurts in his teeth to admit it, "my brother stuck between passion and his predilection for the outdated, though nonetheless noble notions of chivalry and honor."  
  
As for his mother, he shrugs, mouth softening.   
  
"My mother was stuck in a house with three alpha-males. Needless to say she was...quiet."  
  
Understatement. He was fairly certain she didn't speak until his father left the room when he was getting yelled at, even young. Casting his eyebrow up, he acknowledged, "She's a teacher. It's her family we inherited our uh," he eyes their open atmosphere to continue with a whisper, "secret society on campus. Far as I know, she's still teaching there."  
  
No he wouldn't. And he would probably come claiming his drink at the most inopportune moment for her. Just once, she would like a heads up. So that she didn't have mini heart attacks every time he came around. It was that same involuntary reaction that he loved though, the dick. As if she could control her beating heart. Irene didn't meditate, she didn't have the patience for it.  
  
Irene understood the type of woman his mother was. It made sense. Sometimes she thought her own mother might be the same, whenever she wasn't vastly hoping they shared more than their beauty in common.  
  
With another nod and small smile, Irene turned around again and walked out of the coffee shop. Then she took her phone out and scrolled through her contact list. Clicking on edit, she deleted the name she had Ansel stored as and then changed it again. The contact name now read: You're Gonna Regret This.  
  
Well, if there was anything she learned today (and she had learned plenty), it was that no matter how misinformed you were, a choice was still a choice.  
  
Hmm, yes, she was going to go get that drink. She needed it.  
  



	10. You let us find out through Google Alert?!

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> You're Here To Accuse Me Of Not Keeping In Touch...With You?

There were many times where Belle dreamt about being back here, but she had never thought it would actually be true. How could she when a step inside the grounds, even a step inside the city, would have alerted Remington and with it bring about swift retribution? And after he was dead, the reasons became denial, then cowardice. She just didn't think she would be able to step foot and bear it.  
  
Belle did so now, walking the long and winding path up from the gate. Jerome still manned the front gate. His shock upon seeing her had colored his entire face as she greeted him with soft words but firm tone: she was going inside, he had to open the gate for her. His surprise dwindled enough to elicit wariness, claiming to which she responded by handing over her wand. He recognized it. It was her wand that had allowed her to go to and from the manor without trouble before. She knew it couldn't do so now, and wouldn't have been surprised if her having it would have triggered some latent alarm. Remington had not been the master of trickery, but he was a successful protégé of it. Jerome allowed her passage and so she entered, wandless but not defenseless.  
  
Cormac had wanted to come along. Her husband, her partner in everything, didn't understand why she had to do this alone the first time. Not with the girls and not with him, Belle had to walk up this path alone, set foot in that manor alone, and talk to her eldest alone. They had fought, because of course they did. What haven't they fought about before? Fighting with Cormac was healthy, especially for her. She never fought with Remington see, not really. She was feisty, at times difficult, hard to get but she never went against him. It took her a long time to realize that it was because she had been afraid to do so.  
  
She wasn't afraid to fight with Cormac and he wasn't afraid of fighting with her. Any other man would have treated her delicately after the position he found her in: weak, destroyed, and dead inside. They would have walked on tip toes around her, afraid to set her off, afraid to push her off the wagon but not him. Since you were born, he liked to tell Carina especially, crying and fighting have always been a sign that you're alive. Don't be afraid to do so.  
  
Belle didn't deserve him. She didn't deserve those girls. She didn't deserve being wanted in the lives of the sons that she had abandoned. But she was, by their own mouths they wanted her and their sisters in their life in varying degrees. Yet it had happened, and so here she was. Having a woman like her in a person's life, that involved a few certain...consequences (for lack of a better term), and one of them Olivier was going to realize soon enough.   
  
Belle climbed the short steps up to the front entrance and used the brass knocker to knock on the door three times. She didn't have to wait long before the heavy door opened, revealing an older but familiar face that revealed just as much surprise as Jerome's, though undoubtedly recovered sooner. Perhaps Jerome had sent warning along.  
  
"Bonjour, Teresa," Belle greeted with a small smile. A long time ago Belle had considered Teresa a friend. Now she could only imagine what the woman must think of her. Teresa was more mother to her eldest than Belle ever was and probably would be. She had been here all these years, no doubt cared for the barely five month Olivier once he was delivered to his father after being wrenched from her arms. Metaphorically, that was. She had passed Olivier along, swaddled and all on that breezy May afternoon. It should have been storming. The skies should have parted and lightning should have cracked the Earth into two. Instead the sun was barely covered by the wisps of cloud across the blue sky that were blown away quickly by a light wind. Nothing made sense that day.  
  
"Is Olivier available?" Belle waited until she was invited in to pass the threshold but she wouldn't have been stopped if she hadn't. Teresa explained in their native French that he was in his study and the scene felt suddenly so familiar she had to remind herself how to breathe. So very little changed inside these walls. The hand-carved and elaborate grandfather clock still stood against the wall where it had always been. Portraits and paintings decorated said walls, but hardly any pictures, and definitely none of the boys growing up. There were pictures of her girls everywhere in their house in Dublin, along with toys and coloring books, and DVD cases (there was no tearing Carina away from Lost until she finished). It was hard to imagine the manor with toys strewn about, smelling of diapers and spit-up. Hard to imagine footprints made of mud on the Persian rug she stood on, fruit punch stains on white uniform shirts, or water rings on the wooden dining tables.  
  
She remembered to breathe again.  
  
Belle stepped up to the coat rack that took off your coat for you, raising her arms like it required, and watched it hang her coat up in its metal arms before turning back to Teresa, her cheeks pinking as color returned to then with the warmth, asking, "Can you let him know I'm here?"  
  
"That's bad faith. And you have lost your mind, if you think I won't go below the belt."   
  
Olivier was in the middle of speaking on his cell, leaning in the high-back chair backwards, swiveled away like something out of the Godfather. (You couldn't beat the power of his clients making that connection mentally when they first speak with him.) Forehead in hand, he had stiffened and then intentionally ignored hearing the door open. Holding the phone closer to his neck, he holds his hand up over the chair to tell Teresa to wait a moment. When he caught a glimpse in the glass of who stood behind her--whose heart was racing so damn fast, he felt his own stop. Throat drying with record speed, he cut the man on the other end off, half-spitting,"You have twenty-four hours."   
  
Then he hung up. Truth was, the next words out of his mouth were going to be a threat, and his head had just sufficiently - for an instant - depleted of all ability to make a rational response. His goddamn mother walking in to his house would do that. Olivier tilts his head, feeling his chest constrict. The thought had been bitter, he thinks. Angry. That wasn't good--that wasn't, it meant he wasn't thinking rationally. And if he wasn't thinking rationally--  
  
His eyes twist to look at Teresa's face first, and he feels himself relax. She had that look she could get of 'You say the word honey and I'll clean this mess up,' but it was the protective glimmer in that twisting his stomach. Belle had no damn right--she signed those away, metaphorically, when she left him here in the first place. No right, but of course she was. It was Tony. The one thing he knew they had in common; that they put his needs above their own.   
  
He didn't turn around right away, and he wasn't going to move his chair; he turned to make himself a drink, nodding to her, saying only, "It's all right, Teresa."  
  
It wasn't. It was a far cry from all right. Their mother hadn't been to this manor in twenty-five years; she had fled from him. Oh, it was Dad. (Tony's words ring in his ears.) Fact was she already had said it, when he went to her before: I gave you up to him. I did the worst possible thing I could do.  
  
"Tony." He says to her first, not looking around even though he easily detects only their two heartbeats in the room. It was a guess, but an educated one. She was there to fight for Tony.  
  
She didn't fight for him, never had, and to see her there - something he dreamt off more often than he'd ever admit aloud - raised bile in his throat he chases down with alcohol, rapidly swishing it back and forth. Face ravaged at his stares at the glass, he wants to ask why he should even meet with her. Why he should give her that -time- of his life. Didn't he have more important things to do? Like get her son, his little brother, off the hook for murder?

Ha, hook. They'd found a way to spear through solid-rock until he squirmed like the salmon his brother thought he was.   
  
Talk about grizzlies, he thinks setting his glass down. Rubbing his hand over his face hard, he finally looks up at her and just shakes his head back and forth, just once.  
  
"Belle, I'm getting him out." He just keeps promising that, doesn't he? The one thing he was supposed to be able to do and his mother there, after twenty-five years to watch. To know he'd failed at keeping his little brother safe.   
  
"Must be strange for you." He asks, dry and yet -- perfectly quiet, steady even as he hides a vibration in his hand under the desk, "Being back here for the first time in...oh, it must be twenty-five years?"  
  
Was it for her sake that he kept himself from voicing a threat aloud or because of something else? Had she startled him that much, or angered him? She saw the clench in his jaw for a split moment and had to restrain a sad smile. If a similar facial expression was the only connection she would have to her eldest son then so be it. But it wasn't. Their strongest connection was Antonio and then his sisters, her daughters.  
  
Teresa left the room only after Olivier had said he was okay. He hadn't dismissed here directly, or asked her to leave the room, merely stated that it was alright, that this was allowed. Like Belle was the intruding nuisance (she was) that he would entertain but otherwise wouldn't have bothered to kick out himself. Mother Teresa would have done so for him, possibly with great joy.  
  
She shook her head sharply, jarring herself out of her own destructive thoughts. No time to linger in self-pity.  
  
His back was still to her, and even though he addressed her by speaking his brother's name, guessing at the reason she was here, Belle did not answer. She wasn't going to speak to his back and therefore remained completely silent until he had turned around again.  
  
"Twenty-six years in two months," she responded quick enough, knowing Olivier's 26th birthday was just around the corner, less than a week away. The knowledge was so instinctive, the fact that she had been almost 26 years without stepping foot back here, since she left when she was 19 years old, almost 20, that she couldn't let the information stand incorrect.  
  
"And I have no doubt you will, but that is not why am I here," though there was some relief in hearing it said out loud. Belle frankly didn't care what Tony or Olivier have done or will do, she wouldn't and couldn't have them in jail. Cormac was not of the same mind, hence their fight, and hence one reason in a multitude for his absence now.  
  
"Neither is it to ask about him, I shall do so myself when I visit him next," she took a pause and then continued to speak.  
  
"We found out about his arrest through an Internet article, Olivier. And by we, I mean Carina, who has your names on her Google Alert and skill enough to get past any parental controls we set on those stupid machines. Carina had to read her brother accused of being a murderer, and I had to find out from her."  
  
"Twenty-six." He corrects with her in a voice so chilled, without blinking, Olivier himself barely restrains a wince. Oh! That's right, his twenty-sixth birthday was right around the corner. Well, it's not like it'll be the first he ever celebrated without Tony.  
  
(That was unfair, Olivier knew, but he was just--he was mad.)  
  
That did surprise him, to hear that she was 'certain' he was going to get Tony out. It surprised Olivier enough that his eyebrows popped up, before he caught himself--enough, that he leans forward, folds his arms over his (father's) desk, and pauses.   
  
He catches his breath, keeps his eyes trained straight on her, then holds one hand up, gesturing with it just to clarify.  
  
"I'm sorry," Olivier's under-chuckle bitter laugh suggests otherwise, "you're here--to accuse me," he gestures himself, fingers digging into his chest over his heart, "of not doing a good job, of keeping in touch with -you-?"   
  
The dry irony had broken Olivier into a wide smirk that couldn't meet his eyes. Was she serious? Of all things to--okay, yes, he wished the girls hadn't found out that way. He wished they didn't know at all. Belle had a right to be upset about that, but he couldn't control Google Alert.   
  
Actually scratch that, he was damn proud of Carina keeping tabs on him.  
  
"I'm happy to explain to both girls," he exhales, "that their brother has been seriously wronged. Which is perfectly true, Belle."  
  
"I'm many things, and I never claimed to not be a hypocrite," she started off, saying what came to mind so that she did say something to begin with and her throat didn't close up and prevent her from speaking. Unfortunately, the problem with that was she would be unfiltered and wouldn't be able to take what she said back. But even that was preferable to silence.  
  
"And what about what you do? Will you explain that?" She took a brief pause again as Cormac's words stormed around her mind in a whirl, ran a hand through her hair and then raised her hands as she gestured, "Look. You've decided to be in their lives, which means unwanted and unneeded as I am, as you've already said," she slaps her hands on her legs, "I'm there too.  
  
As is Cormac. They're our daughters and until they're old enough to make decisions for themselves, we decide what's best for them. I'm not going to keep you or Tonio from your sisters, and Cormac wouldn't take them away from me to prevent that no matter his disagreements, but if this is going to work, we need to be able to communicate." The sheer amount of ridiculous and crazy in the last two sentences was enough to anger even her, but why beat herself up when Olivier was itching to do so?  
  
Belle swallowed and felt her resolve give an inch, her voice softening from the firm tone she had managed to get it to.  
  
"I didn't come for you before. Twenty-six years and I never once made contact, and I have my reasons, my 'excuses', but those are pretty much useless. And I'm here now because you weren't the coward I was, you sought your sisters out to know them and me out to confront me. You've got more character in a pinky than I've got in my whole body." She broke for air and mon Dieu why was it so hot in here? She moved her hair behind her shoulders and then lifted her hands again.  
  
"And you chose to have us in your life which means all you and Tony do could affect Carina and Angie. Which means you have given me the right to be here where I did not have it before."  
  
 _I've never claimed not to be a hypocrite._ Tony said the same thing. The sudden, blinding understanding where exactly it was his brother got his love of double negatives drops into his stomach, but it's all right. Apparently his stomach was on the floor somewhere. Clenching down his back teeth, he keeps his eyes on Belle as she starts to move. He won't speak. He won't blink. Olivier...can't; to most of that he has nothing to say, his anger tempered minorly by her admittance and he won't blink. He won't look away. Then he might miss something.   
  
And in the twenty-six years, Belle was right. He wasn't a coward. He could look her in the eye without flinching, without squirming. But his throat stayed dry and he let a heavy silence fall, shook the glass back and forth on the table. Yes, he had sought her out. And yes dammit, he wants to know his sisters. The day trip they took the four of them in Roma now felt like it was out of a dream, desperately glorious in ways he couldn't ever remember feeling before.  
  
When he does speak again, his gaze goes right back to steady on her. "What is it I do that you're so worried about my explanation, Belle? You think I'm going to take Carina on a field trip and show her how to shoot a gun? Or tell Angie she can break any law she wants, I'll get her out of it? You really think I would--"  
  
He cuts off because he knows: it's not like he didn't try to do exactly that to Tony. Rubbing at his forehead hard and scoffing under his breath, he shakes his head. There was water in his eyes he rubs and then blinks away, reminding him he had to blink more often. Yet Olivier still doesn't break eye contact.   
  
"It's not a question of that, Belle," his hand fell back down on the desk, stiffening his upper lip. "I know it affects them. And you are wanted, or else, I wouldn't have gone looking for you. So, thanks. I agree. I do think better communication is necessary--and more secure, because I am -not, going to let the girls be in danger.  
  
But you always had the right to show concern, don't tell me that. You always had the right to be upset and angry, what you lacked, was actually being here to do it. Which left me -really- hard pressed to believe you care. Even now!" Olivier couldn't take it anymore; he stood. But he didn't leave the desk, and though every muscle was tense, he didn't look away.  
"You just said you weren't going to ask what I do, or how Tony is--you haven't asked if he did it, what happened, anything! You're more concerned with my failure to tell your new family, how I fucked up, than asking anything yet about Tony or I's life."  
  
"No, I think that before Notre Dame, you managed to stay relatively low-key. I think that ever since then all I've read is more and more subtle attacks on you and your organization: arrests, articles, and now Tony? I think, I fear, I dread the fact that you nor I are going to keep these girls from finding out or getting hurt. That's what I fear- that's what I worry about! That I can't protect them the same way I couldn't protect you-," her voice broke and she had to put a hand over her mouth to still and hide her quivering lip. The silence gave Olivier enough time to respond himself, without interruption from Belle no matter how desperately she wanted to. Instead she listened, steeled her jaw again, kept her face straight and looking forward.  
  
"I've never not cared. Say every single bad thing you think about me, they're probably all true, but I do care. I tried to come back once, twice, got to the city...," she closed her eyes briefly and took in a deep breath before she opened her eyes again, eyes narrowed not in anger but in an attempt to keep tears away.  
  
"You think I don't know how the business works? Furthermore, I wasn't going to volunteer myself up for further proof your father was there for you when I wasn't. Raised you, taught you what he knows, how can I ask you about it without you thinking I judge you? Resent him?" More cowardice; fear of further rejection, further anger from him but she couldn't make room for that anymore.  
  
"I don't, by the way. Judge you or resent him. I've long stopped being angry at Remington, and forgave him for it. Acknowledging that he had done something that needed my forgiveness to begin with, that took longer than anything else." She had too much guilt in her. Sometimes it was surprising she even got through the day, or so she'd been told.  
  
This one time she did clench her back teeth in annoyance, "I'm not going to ask how he is, because I'm going to go see myself, and talk to him myself and I've told you so already!" She blinked once, then twice at his choice of words and felt her words and expression soften again.  
  
"You didn't fail, Olivier, you didn't screw up. I'm sorry if I made you feel like that I didn't mean...I'm scared. I've been scared every single day for the past quarter century, but never like this. I'm scared because," her bottom lip quivered again and she had to hug her own arms just to continue, "because I just got you both back. I don't deserve it, but you're here and I...I -can't- lose you again." She sniffed and wiped an eye before continuing.  
  
"Not to jail, not to anything. So what if he killed those men? So what if you head a criminal organization, you're my sons." Though she didn't deserve to address them by the title, there was very little she did deserve.  
  
"Of course I want to talk about your lives, but whenever you're comfortable sharing it to me. Of course I want to -be- in your lives, without me having to drag up excuses or worry about getting kicked out in well-deserved retribution. Tony can explain this to me in his own time, and I'll understand. And I want you to understand that I wouldn't dismiss or replace your childhood, that's not what I want."  
  
"You don't need to protect me." Olivier's mind was reeling, and he had to see the glass down again for fear of breaking it. Whether that would happen because he threw it or dropped it, he didn't know, but he did like to think he'd throw it before he let it just fall from his hand. The angry chink of ice smacking into each other is echoed as his palms slap into the desk. She could say that him living here had been terrible for him as many time as she wanted; Dad had protected him, and then taught him to protect himself. She can dread. He dreads that thought too, but he -would- protect them, goddammit. No, he wasn't going to teach Carina how to shoot a gun or Angie how to steal a car. But they were different--to begin with they never would have the bloodlust he and Tony lived with. That didn't mean he hadn't placed magical alarms to tell him if anything was amiss in Carina and Angie's bedrooms.  
  
Rubbing both hands hard over his face again just in case she noticed they shook, that his shoulders shook with every word she said. Finally breathing out - almost all at once, like letting air from a balloon - he looked up again, voice dropped.  
  
"I don't know how you can ask me about it without my feeling judged. But," he meets her eyes, his own wide and too blue, "Belle, how can I believe you're even interested in knowing if you don't ask?" He bites his bottom lip as if trying to pierce the flesh. That will keep it from trembling.  
  
"After...after twenty-six years, you come here," his voice is parched for water, for breath, for life, "and I get, that you're afraid I might be angry, or reject you, or scream. I mean I don't, because I can hear pretty clearly a relief in the fact that I'll scream-anything that distinguishes me from Dad, right?" His eyebrow cocks, "But I get why you'd be scared to lose me again. It's all you've ever done."  
  
He breathes out hard, mind full of the fact he actually does get that.  
  
"I do get that," his voice is abruptly soft again, "because it's all I've ever done with Tony. He's left me more times than I can count. Hell! It took him getting arrested, to..." There was an under his breath, bitter chuckle again and he shook his head viciously, trying to throw the thought away in one bright scoff. "Stop being angry with me."  
  
Actually it took twelve hours in a jail cell. When Tony got arrested, he'd been chipper and bemused enough to tell him not to send Salvant. As if anyone else was capable of ignoring Tony's bullshit.   
  
He's steadier again when he meets her eyes, lifts and shoulders and shrugs.  
  
"So, yes. Yes, I might be angry. I might call you a hypocrite for caring. But truth is the first time, in my entire life, that I think I believed you actually did give a shit about me, is when I looked up ten minutes ago and you were in that window." He points over his shoulder, then both hands open with a wordless, hopeless, miserable shrug. "And your first question, is how I could-how could I let -you- find out about a crisis in our lives on Google Alert?"   
  
No amount of shredding his bottom lip was going to stop it from trembling then, okay. Plan B. Heart pounding, he knew he hadn't helped the situation, knew when he saw her in that window too it felt like his mother had come to check on his homework--and he felt fear of failure familiar as anything rise in his throat. You couldn't have one coiffed hair out of place, Tony had said, you were his golden boy and you never let him down, because you were afraid of what would happen if you did.   
  
(Yeah, no shit Sherlock, seven years old and I literally watched him eat a cop for breakfast.)  
  
His mother admitting she was afraid she couldn't protect him though--that was new. Dad never worried about that. It was a well-known fact that if you messed with him, Dad would descend like the hand of God come to tear you to shreds. And if he wouldn't have for Tony's sake, Olivier would. Belle told him she understood the business--and she probably did, she probably knew as much as his lieutenants, but she missed one thing. Family was where their greatest power lay, always had been. Dad's business expanded when he was seventeen and able to help. It was no coincidence either, that Dad dying had opened them to vulnerabilities they'd never had before, let Roswell worm into his city when he was busy covering Tony. He couldn't regret it, didn't resent it, but he acknowledged it.   
  
Belle couldn't know that though. She'd never seen the business when he and Dad were in charge. Ironically, she had mentioned now how 'low-key' he'd had it--but of course it had been. It was his own betrayal of Dad that destroyed that.   
  
"I can do--" he exhales, "a lot. Hear your heartbeat, your lungs, Teresa's footsteps pacing back and forth at the end of the hall. I will, get Tony off--I have connections in both governments, in all branches of the policia nationale, in the press--and own a winery, on top of multiple night clubs and bars. I can cast imperius wordlessly just by making eye-contact, and I--I won't explain my prowess the other unforgivable curses. Parlo italiano, ich spreche deutsch, je parle le francais, espanol, and of course english, business and non, not to mention Latin. And I studied philosophy, mostly political, but a decent amount of human and supernatural psychology as well, just in spare time." He throws a hand up, twists and leans on his desk.  
  
"But one thing I really can't do, madre, is read your mind. So if you don't ask me-ask me about, me," his hand smacks his chest again but his voice is ravaged, hurt, "I can't know if it's because you feel you don't have a right to, or if you really, just don't give a shit. I mean--I can't. I sought you out. You're right, I want the girls, my -sisters- in my life. And I'm sick, over the idea they found out online. I should have stopped that. Tony should be in another country right now. But--you're right, I did give you the opening, I did ask you to be concerned. I get, that it's hard to face me? But if you don't believe you have a right to show you have concern about how I'm doing, then I am--" his voice shook, his hand came down to emphasize, "never," the word ringing in his own ears, "going to believe you do."  
  
The heavy-set admission weighs too much on his own heart and he let's his hands fall to brace himself against the desk. Honestly, he knew he spoke in circles, he knew he sent her all--all kinds of mixed messages, but he was being honest. Olivier couldn't say he was about most people.   
  
Under his breath, he adds quietly, "And so what? So what, if he killed those people?" His hand rubs under eyes dry, as if warding off tears he wished he could shed. "He's killed more than that, and every single one of them for me--he'd deny it, but it was, and he's _sick_ over it. I may agree with you, because I honestly don't give a damn, but Tony does. Tony's hamstrung me."   
  
Olivier looks up; this time it was easier to find her eyes.  
  
"I could have had him out in five minutes if killing the guards, yanking him out and putting him on a plane was acceptable to him--or just, the lead witness and detective--but Tony refused. I can't even say that I could do it without telling him, because he--he _*always*_ , finds out."  
  
"Not anymore, I'm very aware you can protect yourself, that doesn't mean I don't want to or wish I could- are you just picking apart everything I say and criticizing me for it? Is anything and -everything- I say just going to be wrong in your book?" That wouldn't stop her from talking, not anymore. But he eventually did admit to understanding her. One aspect, a single aspect, but that was progress right here if she ever saw it.  
  
"I don't want you to not be like your father, that's not what brings me relief," she countered quickly despite telling herself she wouldn't interrupt, "I selfishly, stupidly, ignorantly, and unfairly want to see parts of me too," she admitted, dropping her hands against her sides again, shrugging. Then her lips pursed together again as her eyes started stinging again, eager to shed tears of shame but she couldn't look away. Maybe she couldn't stop herself from crying but she would keep looking at him, looking forward.  
  
Her heartbeat seemed to get only quicker as he listed off being able to hear it, and being able to hear Teresa in the hall. She hadn't asked him about that. She had asked Tony when he had visited years ago, briefly and enigmatically, and he had shrugged it away and Belle hadn't bothered him with it longer. She hadn't asked Olivier about it because this was their 3rd meeting. The first came as too much shock, and she had just sat down and taken everything he wanted to spew her way. The second was brief, as Olivier and Tony took the girls out for a day in Rome. Angie still talked about it, and Carina was saying she was moving there when she was 17. Like hell, Cormac's charming response had been. Those little girls were his life, and he didn't even want to think about them out of the house yet, but she digressed. Her point was that she hadn't had the opportunity to ask, not did she feel like he would be comfortable enough to disclose any part of his life with her, especially his being half-vampire.  
  
Or anything else, but his point was crystal clear and poignant. It struck her chest with the same deftness and force an ice pick might have done. Her hand even came up to rub her chest under her throat, just to make sure there wasn't a sudden hole there or a gash. She exhaled and it came out in erratic and intermittent breaths as she nodded.  
  
Well he was right, he was pretty adept at psychology. As well as being contrary to the point that it actually was possible for her to follow him. Ironic, as it should be opposite, but who knew more about being contrary than women? That was part of their life, part of their skills, indeed part of their defense. Olivier pushed her away and beckoned her in with the same hand, the same way she claimed to care but didn't ask about him with the same mouth.  
  
"Olivier," she began softer, after he switched topics, after he spoke of his brother and Belle could almost see Zeus descend and place the heavens on Olivier's shoulders for him to carry the burden of the weight that was too much for one man to bear. Suddenly she saw an aspect that they may in fact share, and wished that it wasn't so. Olivier was saddled with her guilt, at least where his brother was involved. Tony was Olivier's exception to the rules.  
  
"Any of those options involve him having to leave the country, become a fugitive. And he's killed for you, and it may be hurting him but it hasn't stopped him," her jaw trembled but her words were steady enough to continue, so she did.  
  
"And he's left you before, more than once, he told me so," that seemed to be Olivier's curse, "so no, Tony may not want you to kill for him in his clear double standard, but more than that, he doesn't want to run away again. He doesn't want to leave you again. Neither do I. You're not alone, Olivier, it may take some time for you to believe it, especially from me.  
  
So," she cleared her throat, "tell me what they have on him. What's the defense strategy?"   
  
Not all of them, he thinks briefly. Without the witness, all they had was a photograph that's chain of control was fishy at best and likely wouldn't be held up in court, and a credit card reciept from a card on file that could have been used by anyone claiming to be his brother to frame him. Rubbing another hand back to steady himself, he seizes on the opportunity to show his progress instead of discuss the questionable account of him not being alone.   
  
Though Olivier picks his drink up again too.  
  
"That he's been setup." He starts, after clearing an apparent mountain in his throat that catches back up in his nose until he swallows the fiery shot of bourbon and feels in his nostrils the sweet tang. Then he gestures for her to sit, materializing a box of Kleenex next to the chair, a bit pink to know it took him so long to think of her own comfort.   
  
"Which he has been," He says with a hard edge to his voice, "guilty or not, my source in the precinct that made the arrest swears the detective received an anonymous tip. In the form of a manilla folder with all evidence necessary neatly catalogued to arrest him." Olivier folds his arms on his chest. "That's not competent, thorough policework. That screams to any person with half a brain, that someone wanted Tony arrested. Once I find them?"  
  
He pauses, because he frankly wanted to simply rip them to shreds. It seemed like they'd just resume screaming at each other if he admitted that, though.  
  
"Then I can discredit them. Discredit that person, and you discredit the entire manilla folder-which is all loose and circumstancial, if I get the photograph thrown out, which I will. Half the judges owe me one to begin with." He clenches down on his teeth. "And none of them want to make me angrier. Especially considering the fact the two dead were criminals to begin with. Tony does have a habit of that."  
  
He'd once thought they wouldn't prosecute him for killing Dad--but ha, look how well the theory of not prosecuting for killing criminals turns out. Well. Not prosecuting _D'Grey's_ for killing criminals.   
  
Belle starts breathing easier again when Olivier decides to speak about Tony's case instead. Not because she was relieved to have her previous statements ignored, but because she was ready and eager to pause their fighting. She didn't think she could stand to be further emotionally drained and therefore needed some time to recuperate. Granted, talking about her youngest son in jail for murder wasn't exactly an easier topic to tackle.  
  
She sat down when he gestured, remembering only then that she had legs and that they moved. That was fortunate because if she had recalled that during the previous conversation, they would have failed her and her knees would have given out. Now she sat in a fluid motion, crossing her ankles not her knees and took a paper napkin from the container that appeared out of thin air without a word or a wand. She was impressed but then moved on quickly after dabbing under her eyes.  
  
Sitting straight and with her hands cupped together on her lap, a habit from growing up that she couldn't shake off and one that earned her frequent teases from Cormac's family, she listened intently and then nodded. A crease appeared between her eyebrows as she frowned and wondered who could disdain of Tony so much to go through with this and either brave or stupid enough to take a chance of having to answer to Olivier. Olivier was livid, so maybe all the anger he'd been looking at her with before hadn't all been entirely because of her. Or maybe she was just wishfully thinking.  
  
Discredit here having the meaning of tear limb from limb? She recognized the tone with a few changes and nuances to be similar to that of Remington's. But Olivier's anger boiled right under the surface, and his father's had stemmed from deep within. Olivier struggled to keep back a very detailed threat while Remington had smiled and admitted yes, he was quite cross with a person. And then he'd metaphorically cross them off the list. An eye for eye.  
  
"Have you thought of who could be Tony's character witness?" She asked after nodding through his explanation (and restraining a flinch at the mention again of Tony killing criminals). If the defense was claiming set-up, then they also had to convince the jury that Tony would be incapable of doing this. That was some heavy irony. Nevertheless, with Olivier's connections there must be someone respected and trusted enough by the community that could testify on Tony's behalf. But at the same time, it had to be someone the public didn't -know- was associated with the cartel.   
  
Here he has to smile, pausing behind a sip. It refracts behind the glass to give him the brief appearance of two mouths, thin, closed, wide and curved. The shrug he offers before speaking is tight despite effort, shoulders too bound, heartstrings too wound to be anything else. Yet Olivier's voice is untouched.  
  
"There's pieces online in his defense already." The public doesn't have to know Daniella wrote them. "And if I can discredit the evidence quickly, then we file for dismissal before we need to be thinking of testimonial character witnesses. But yes, there are two character witnesses who I have no doubt will leap at the chance to help him--and who hate me, or at least my influence."   
  
He sets the glass down once more, unable physically to not speak with his hands. Was his mother like that? She may have been born French, but she seemed expressive enough he would buy her as Italian too. Or maybe he should stop looking for these connections, dammit.  
  
"One, Leo Armand. Self-made man after his father lost everything to a gambling debt, a well-liked prosecutor, who still frequently does pro-bono cases for sexual harassment. I wouldn't be surprised if he has a fanclub. He also is Tony's childhood friend." Olivier speaks evenly, trying not to think on her promise not to try and discredit  his own childhood.   
  
"And two, Claude Simmons. Though the police don't love him, as he's been a fan of---mm, vigilante justice since he was a teenager, he works as a vampire hunter and has that fatherly rugged, straight-shooter appeal of being one of the most honest men you've ever met. And I say fatherly because since Tony was fifteen, that's what he's acted like. Claude can testify to the fact that Tony's teenage years here were--" his throat sticks, "--unpleasant, better than anyone, except myself. The difference being he's the only one the jury would believe when he blames me. Claude let him crash on his couch for years, taught him self-defense, paid for his plane ticket out of here when Tony was seventeen. Leo suffered for it when Tony ran--nearly had his arm ripped off because he wouldn't give his friend up."   
  
Couldn't, actually, but Olivier did so love spinning words. As long as he wasn't trying to think of the fact that he was telling their -mother- how abandoned and alone his brother had felt.  
  
"They can testify easily to the fact that with Tony's upbringing, the last thing in the world he would ever do, is become Dad. All he ever wanted to do was get out of here. He's spent his life being persecuted for his last name, and that is exactly, what is happening here. And it -all-," he waves his hand through the air, "has the benefit of being absolutely true."  
  
 If there were, no doubt Carina had found her way to them already. Belle found relief that there were such articles out there, requested by Olivier specifically or not. And despite Olivier's intention to get the case annulled the fact was the government was prosecuting Antonio, they're the ones who want to bring him to justice and the warrant for his arrest was signed. It meant that unless he did employ some quick tactics, it was going to trial.  
  
"Armand?" She asked with curiosity, her mind stretching to 26 years ago to see if she could remember a Leo Armand newborn, but by the time she was living with Remington, and she lived with him for two years, her family had cut her away, both sides of it.  
  
"My mother's family," she explained, unknowing whether Olivier knew that much about her. Sometimes it seemed eons ago the life she used to live here, surrounded by wealth and backstabbing. It had been too long since she had been Métisee even if the name was still legally hers; she had not changed it officially, but no one else knew her as anything other than Senzio, her husband's last name. It was another case of irony the fact that she had left one Italian man and ended up with another.  
  
Another heavy irony here, if it could be called that, was the fact that the character witnesses Olivier had in mind were actually people Tony knew, despite his lack of the D'Grey influence (by choice, she knew). From an analytical standpoint, she was pleased. It would be believable because these men did care for Tony; it would be believable because it was real.  
  
Once she stopped being objective however...her heart ached. A vampire hunter. Mon Dieu, Tonio- she exhaled and passed a hand over her face while keeping away an incredulous chuckle. Seeking refuge with a hunter, the very people who had turned Remington's sister against him, the very people he had despised. Remington must not have ever known, otherwise he wouldn't have allowed Tony the insult. She swallowed a lump in her throat.  
  
It seemed she had one Claude Simmons to track down and thank, for being there for Tony and for being with him now.  
  
"Sound," was what she managed to get out at first. "Logical, and most importantly emotional...believable, yes," she nodded and swallowed another lump in her throat. Now she prayed doubly hard that despite how it seemed, this wouldn't get to a full-blown trial.  
  
"And do you? Blame yourself, I mean."  
  
Hadn't his insinuation answered that? Tip of his tooth burying deep in the flesh of his tongue, Olivier give himself the second to answer her question. Did he blame himself for his brother committing murder generally? Tony killed Dad when there were teeth buried in his own gullet; quiet rage shoots through his chest, echoing like the pistol had, one, two -- and then the hiss of flames as the wood stake buried in their father's chest. Dad's eyes went dark upside down for Olivier, just as they had that day, from where he lay on the ground. Eliza's guard had been his own murder, and for it Tony paid in killing Emily. Sixteen necks snapped at Notre Dame, fighting as much to set Paris free as he was stopping Olivier from recruiting them himself. Seven in the attack on the village -- they were while he was undercover, pretending to be a loyal terrorist  to protect them both. These two thugs were the same, though he hadn't been asked to kill them: they were casualties of bloodlust, of their genetics and Tony's inability to control it.  
  
"I'm not allowed to feel his guilt." Olivier quotes, smile small.   
  
They weren't what Belle was asking about. It was Tony's childhood. It was the burden he carried every day knowing he asked for Dad to bring Tony home with him. (But he held his brother dying while birthday cake dribbled down his chin and if he hadn't been there -- Tony would be dead now). And he spent two years fighting with his brother as much as they ignored it, as much as they pretended otherwise. (He ripped the assassin limb from limb until he was nothing but a pathetic, bloodied...victim, of his own.) Tony left. (After he pummeled him, after he repaid a punch with attempted murder.) He hadn't stood up to their father until they betrayed him; he'd taken Dad's side again and again, had never told Dad he ought to treat Tony better, let his brother live with thinking he wasn't enough.  
  
That wasn't the whole story though, something in his chest screams. Olivier's hand lands over the rapidly beaten heart. Rubbing a thumb back and forth over where it hurt, he releases his lip to answer her.  
  
"I...regret, some of what I said to him over the years. That I asked his help. Even though the truth is I asked as much as he volunteered, little brother or not he was just as entitled to fight back, to help, he just took the opportunity. I can't blame...anyone for this either, because I really don't give a fuck they're dead. But as for this? No. No, I don't.  
  
These two that are dead, Alain, Bruce? They got in a fight, one of them drew blood -- and, Tony never dealt with our hybrid state. I'm still worried about that, because he can be worse than a newborn vampire Belle. The truth is he lost control, he blacked out and didn't remember his own name, and I don't think he should be punished for the existence of animal instinct. I'm not saying, that it means he shouldn't learn to control it -- because quite the contrary, but I, I've been trying to help him in that department for a long time. I'd never have learned any sense of control if not for Tony, and I don't think he even knows that."  
  
Hand dropping into his back pocket, he breathes out harshly, looking at her curiously -- because he didn't know how she would take this. He didn't know why he'd even said it: it wasn't exactly a normal conversation topic, and this woman might be his mother, but he barely knows her. Soothing a sore point in his tongue behind his teeth, he drops his gaze to the floor and then speaks quieter.  
  
"And as for our childhood here, I may be responsible for bringing him here as much as you are for letting him go, but neither one of us were the ones who...hurt him, so deeply. Dad tried. He did. And Tony did, but they just--" He smiles, very briefly, "--frankly, they were too fucking alike. They didn't like their ideas or morality questioned in the slightest, and as they never aligned on either matter, they just argued. Then it got worse. Because as hard as I tried," his brows crumple together and he admits quietly, "it never escaped Tony's notice that Dad wanted to hurt you, and please me, when he went to get him. It had nothing to do with Dad, he didn't care either way. And Tony tried to get him to hate him, because it was better than acting like he didn't exist."   
  
Olivier looks back up, looking at her, eyes wide, but earnest.  
  
"But I never acted that way. I wanted him here -- I still do. We visited Nonna together, we snuck out to the library to watch Netflix, had impromptu karaoke sessions with water bottles and feather boas he strung everywhere in my room. We did basically everything, together. Tony introduced me to more movies and albums than I think have actually ever been made. And yeah he was a pain in my ass, but he's also been there, on my worst days, stubbornly refusing to leave until he's made me laugh. It's basically not a terribly inappropriate situation until he's make an insensitive joke, and sometimes it's the only reason I think I have to get out of bed. He looked up to me, and he made me--he makes, me, want to be better than I am. I refuse to believe I'm only responsible for his feeling like he's not enough, because that is not fucking true to me."  
  
There's dead silence and then he exhales, returning to the original discussion seamlessly, even as his eyes were on his fine-crafted Italian shoes, his hands digging into his father's desk hard enough he swore he was going to bleed.  
  
"Emotionally believable, because it's true."  
  
Belle waited patiently for him to gather his thoughts. It was a difficult question and for now she was no different than just another hole in the wall. Like she had said before, this was the grand total of their third meeting. And she was sure that when Olivier spoke of her asking him questions about himself, this was the farthest thing from his mind. Nevertheless, he looked to want to answer it and that was more than she had hoped for, so she waited and then listened.  
  
She was pleased to hear that as far as the murder of these two men went, Olivier didn't place the blame on himself or anyone else it seemed. It was a lack of control of Tony's bloodlust. Belle had experiences with vampires while she lived here, of all different ages but she'd only once encountered a newborn. The woman had pounced on her, running in from three rooms away, eyes frenzied and wild, with a grip that broke her collarbone and fangs that tore into her skin without skill or care. Belle asked Remington not to kill her after he pulled the newborn away and her maker held her back. Belle wasn't sure he hadn't.  
  
Imagining Tony acting worse than the newborn she had encountered made the hairs on her arms stand up, her exhale long. She agreed with a nod of her head that Tony did need to learn control, but found it ironic that Olivier said he wouldn't have learned it if it weren't for his brother.  
  
"Then tell him," she encouraged quietly, her voice steady but soft. Anything that could help, and she was sure it would. If Tony spent his years doing everything to be the opposite of his father, then hearing that what Olivier was trying to teach him didn't stem entirely from Remington's tutelage would make him a lot more receptive to the information. It was either that or tell him that it was what Jon Snow would have done.  
  
Belle smiles too, because she'd always known that. It had been what frightened her most about having Tony leave with Remington. Tony didn't budge from what he thought was correct, and hell if anyone tried to tell him differently. The only one he'd listened to had been her, but that was a very long time. The smile didn't last long, it couldn't with the topic they were discussing. Belle could understand that. The opposite of love wasn't hate, it was apathy. And Remington's apathy had been a destructive, cruel, torture for many. But for his own son? It would have hurt him worse than anything.  
  
She had abandoned Tony, Remington had ignored him, but Olivier had been there (she had learned already that the words 'at least' didn't apply to her sons, these brothers; there was nothing 'least' about them or their relationship). His explanation brought the smile back to her face, as well as a couple of more tears. Belle brought the tissue back up to her eyes and dabbed before nodding again. All that and yet, Olivier still let Tony's friends believe that he was a bad part of Tony's life, the bad brother. A choice rooted in keeping up appearances, or reputation, or maybe to just let Tony feel like he had somebody on his side.  
  
"Does it bother you, letting his friends, like Claude and Leo villainize you? I could understand...everyone else, but you're the most important person in your brother's life. The other people in his life should see you for how you really are with him."  
  
He needed to invest in a mouthguard. The fact that his mother was there alone has his teeth threatening to shred his gums, and it clearly wasn't going to be aided by any topic of discussion, or the back of his mind reminding him constantly that his brother was in jail, Hans was awol, Stefanie was a vampire, and Daniella hadn't called him all day. The last was of concern only to him, perhaps, but he hadn't gotten where he was by ignoring coincidences -- and the fact that she wasn't as responsive as usual when Tony was arrested, was hardly a little coincidence.  
  
Belle's additional reminder he was villainized constantly by Claude and Leo didn't help, but he asked for it. Or maybe it did. That was the first question she's asked about him without falling over apologies or trying to forestall his anger with assuming she couldn't ask. He was going to remember that for a long time and has to admit--he's glad it was about Tony too, in a way.  
  
"They know I'm important to him." He chuckles under his breath, at a lack of how else to react to the thought. "Tony wouldn't let them be otherwise. They just think it's unhealthy. It's not just his friends that think so. My friends do too. And his sole 'enemy'," (but Audrey hadn't turned his brother in, so who the hell had?), "told him to cut the umbilical cord already. They might be right, I'm not in the position to be objective."   
  
Olivier shrugs, his hand moving to rub at his throat.  
  
"As for the villainizing...well, Claude and Dad were never going to be friends. Or anything less than dire enemies, actually: Claude became a hunter because his sister was killed by one of Dad's friends. And I assume you know Dad's history with hunters," it was ironic, "so...Claude's wary, around me. Personally, I think Claude knows me better than I ever wanted him too, though he'd likely be the first to say he doesn't know me at all. As I said, he's a straight-shooter. Calls it like he sees it. And he's a bit too perceptive for comfort."

Perhaps it was unhealthy, but Belle wasn't exactly an authority on healthy relationships. What did make sense was the fact after growing up together and having only each other to trust and depend on, they would still have that dependency. Dependency wasn't always a bad thing, no matter what certain people would have you believe. A person is never stronger alone than with helpful, able, and supportive allies, but it became dangerous when it escalated to the point of stagnancy without a person. Belle was no psychologist, but she had been to a few.  
  
"But you are not your father, you're your own man." In a perfect, understanding world, neither Olivier or Tony would be judged by who their father was but alas, they didn't live in it. Olivier who learned more from his father than Tony would be judged by a hunter, especially one so adversely affected. She sympathized nevertheless, with both Olivier and this Claude, though sympathy rarely offered much of anything. Still, her position had not changed from before, she still would like to speak to him but perhaps it would be better to ask Tony, rather than Olivier, on how to contact him.  
  
"Even as a young child Tony kept odd company. What about you, do you have many close friends?" She asked instead, deviating from the previous questions with a brief and hesitant smile. "I'd very much like to hear."  
  
Olivier didn't know what to say to that; his eyes simply avert and his hands clench, thumb flicking against the bottom of the desk's lip. There it was again: you're not your father, you're different, he was awful but that doesn't mean you will be. Remind him to ask Teresa for that mouth-guard tomorrow morning first thing before he tore his lip off. (Or would it just grow back? Daniella's blood was moving out of his system now, but it wasn't like she was his only option...  
  
His eyes flick back up at the strange moment of reminiscence from Belle. Strange to him, that was. She had been avoiding mentions of the time he never got to have with her as much as Tony ever did, but he was strangely relieved to hear her refer to it. She knew Tony where she didn't know him; he didn't want her to pretend she didn't know his brother just so he wouldn't -- what? Feel left out? He had been left out. Leaving Tony out now only compounds the issue.  
  
Hesitant smile mirrored on his mouth, he nods, once.   
  
"Close is a...qualifier I'm not entirely sure how to approach." He qualifies, ironically, his own statement but at least this was a conversation he felt was on steadier ground. "But yeah, my oldest friend is probably Hans; his sister Stefanie is now staying here. I definitely have a--group, anyway." He chuckles once.   
  
"And a girlfriend. Apparently my new favorite word." But Olivier just smirks. "In that line, be sure to ask Tony about Stef. I'm sure he's not tired of hearing that question yet at all."  
  
Qualifier or not, skewed definition of friend or not, Belle was happy to hear about it. She had talked about Carina and Angie, or rather spoke on their behalf, and talked about Tony, and Olivier as he related Tony's experience, so it was past due to ask about him. It was baby steps, but it was movement forward nevertheless.  
  
"Girlfriend?" she repeated in a question, her eyebrows rising a small grin appeared on her face before she asked another question.   
  
"What's her name?" There were still a few aspects of being French that she had not parted with and being a romantic was one of them. You could tell a lot about a man's feelings by how he said a woman's name.  
  
"Daniella."   
  
Unable to help himself the immediate smile, this time when he looked away it was due to a rising warmth in his cheeks as he spoke. Yet it only lasts a moment as when he looks back, now smirking as he finds himself having to add, "Faye."   
  
There was a name she had to know, irregardless. Daniella's father had been his own's right hand-man for half his childhood, but predated his birth too. Leaning backwards on his desk, he waves along with his, "And yes, it's that family Faye. Except she also is the opposite of her father, her own woman, etc. ...Heavens, is she her own woman."   
  
The warm smile was back despite the smarm's valiant effort in the war of his reputation. Clearing his throat with a quick swig, he can't help the smart-ass question as he looks back to Belle.  
  
"You going to ask when I plan on giving you grandchildren?"   
Adorable. If she had to choose one word to describe his smile it would be that one. Instead she held the adjective to herself like a secret she kept behind her own small smile. It didn't falter as she listened to the last name, though that did take some work. Coincidence? Never. Fate? Maybe. Especially given that she was Ryan Faye's daughter himself. She'd never had a problem with Ryan, not until she had to place Olivier in his arms.  
  
They were a powerful family nonetheless, more so in centuries past but their influence in England lingered. But Belle knew better by now than to assume anything based on family legacy. It wasn't her last name that Olivier chose to linger on. He even made a point to point out she was the opposite of his father. Complete opposite...those choice of words also never appealed to Belle when used to compare people, especially to compliment them. It implied that every single trait of the other person was bad. Ryan Faye possessed, or had she didn't know the man anymore, both good qualities and bad, just like everybody else.  
  
Belle chose not to point that out, well aware Olivier was more than familiar with the shades of grey in between. Sometimes Belle regretted not having brought up Tony to accept the grey areas. She had thought keeping him straight and narrow would be better in the long run, but maybe it would have been better to do the opposite. There was no way to know now.  
  
Instead she focused on Olivier's smile again, and then at his question laughed once, surprising even herself before replying with a raised eyebrow.  
  
"Only if the answer would be 'not for a longer time, Belle, you are too young to be a grandmother.'" Right, because 45 years old was young? She was delusional.  
  
As he shares the soft chuckle, nodding absently, it crosses his mind that Nonna was his grand-niece technically and he cocks his head to the side. Interesting, he thinks, their definitions of family with their last name. (Not that he and Belle even have the same last name.)   
  
Was it just him, or was it getting exceedingly hot in here? He tugs at his collar, debating undoing it before finishing his drink off. Head back, shot down, and goddammit if it didn't feel wonderful. Yes, it burned his throat. But as they'd already made perfectly clear, what part of them was normal?  
  
"Frankly," because he'd found a moment, even this brief glimpse of one, where he could be brutally and totally honest with his mother, "I'm not sure I even can -have- children, physically." He added physically so they both could ignore the more relevant, immediate danger. His fingers flick over his lips, but he continues undeterred, "So it had better be a long time, Carina's only ten."   
  
Watching Olivier finish his drink made her wish for one of her own, but she would just have to wait until she returned home. Practically the only thing she drank anymore was wine and she had sworn off whiskey nearly 15 years ago. Every person had that one drink that...well, that fucked you up and kicked your ass to that ground, and that one was it for her. It made having a half Irish family difficult at times; boy did the Irish love their whiskey.  
  
Belle wondered about that now as well. Could he? It wasn't something Remington would have paid particular attention to. He wanted to turn Olivier and Tony both, and probably figured that they could use the same ritual if they wanted children of their own eventually. Belle repressed a shudder at the memory of the event, and focused again, smiling at the mention.  
  
"Another child for her to be protective over," she noted, her smile remaining on her face. Truthfully, the girls would probably love that.  
  
Curious, and contemplating, she asked, "Do you want children?"  
  
Immediately, Olivier clears his throat, rounds himself off the desk, getting up, grabbing his glass, moving to the bar nearby to put the bottle away. (As if he hadn't demonstrated when he revealed the Kleenex he hardly needed to literally move to do so.) Busying his hands, wiping them off on towels as though he was trying to erase skin more than the (complete lack of) spilled bourbon.   
  
His shoulder shrug tense, he nonetheless keeps his voice even as he unsticks his throat, responding quietly, "I haven't given that much thought. If so, not for a...long while."   
  
You know, when his brother wasn't in jail, when he didn't have vampires crawling up and down the Parisian streets and wolves turning at will and someone arresting his employees. In other words, probably never. Why did that make his stomach shrink three sizes?   
  
It was a difficult question, that was obvious even before Olivier swiveled and stood to busy his hands. The problem with doing that is that the mind wasn't distracted, so it left it free to roam. So possibly he didn't want to distract himself as much stall to think through a reply. Most people in their mid-twenties had given children at least a thought once in their lifetime right? At least enough to realize they didn't want any. Belle had wanted children since she was 15, but she had been raised thinking she would marry at 18, have children a couple of hears later. Some people were raised in similar ways, and others were thoroughly encouraged to avoid children altogether and dedicate their lives only to themselves. Most people, she thought, considered it. But Olivier wasn't most people.  
  
She nodded at his response, wondering if it was because he was thoroughly aware of what it meant to raise a child in this environment and didn't want that. Olivier wouldn't hear a word against how his father brought him up, not from her at least he had made that clear, but it spoke volumes that even with that mentality, he wouldn't raise a child in the same way. There was of course the chance that she was absolutely wrong, nevertheless, it was...nice (?) to think about.  
  
"I wouldn't know if you're capable of having children, I don't know the full details of the ritual and the potions, just the gist of it, just what I saw. But," she swallowed now after licking her dry lips, "if you want to find out more, I know the name of the witch that helped your father." And by witch, she meant -witch-. This woman had more power than Belle had ever seen.  
  
"Not that this is the best time, but for whenever you can, if you want. Sate your curiosity."  
  
Olivier felt the shift. Her words at first went unheard; he seems simply to sense the proverbial hand of friendship his mother was offering burrow somewhere in his chest, take and squeeze. Then--shift. Click. It was small, but it was like a piece of sediment that fell just right to damn the entire river. He heard just the tiniest crack, and was offered the full chance to understand all that he had come from.   
  
Oh, the crack was his bottle opener, indenting in the ice tin. Olivier released it at once, knowing that what echoes in his ears Belle couldn't have heard. It was his strain of vampirism that gave him that, latent but potent. The same one she spoke of now that if he were to hazard a guess, nature had never intended on his being born in the first place.   
  
He shouldn't have taken so long to recognize that Belle had to know something of the ritual. It was no surprise to him Dad wouldn't have confided in her everything, but she was the one impregnated. (Twice.) It shouldn't have taken him so long.   
  
Not the best time, he thinks with a blithe smile. No, it wasn't. If he did want children it wasn't now. Not to mention he hasn't the slightest idea Daniella's feelings. (He thinks she does want them. The way she treats her siblings, the way she tucked Tony in, the way she demanded he take her blood like it was his personal medicine--if Dani was never a mother, it would be criminal. But of course that's exactly what he is.)  
  
He swallows, then lifts his gaze back to her. "I'd like that, Belle."   
  
It sounds soft, strange, so Oli clears his throat and isn't too surprised to hear his father's tone wade into his clarification.   
"I will know everything." Oh would he?, he hears clearly, and seriously Tony needed to stop being his Jiminy. (Talk about dependency.)  
  
"And," he points his finger to the ceiling a moment, smirking, "Sounds human after all-I just need fertility treatments, then. Get tested. It saves lives. "  
  
Shut up, Antonio.  
  
"There was a witch? I know he took a totem from his own Maker--I gave it back just recently. Beyond that..." Olivier's throat sticks again and he shakes his head, rueful, "He didn't say a word."  
  
Which was just like Dad, it turns out. Oh, Dad trusted him with anything in the world in their business dealings--just not his own life. Olivier couldn't complain though! Dad trusted him enough he was able to undermine him when Tony gave his ultimatum. Was that why, Dad? I betrayed you with that which you took to be your whole life, so quid pro quo, you turn me, take mine? (You never were going to let me go.)  
  
Olivier shakes his head again, trying to clear the thought as he looked back at his mother. His voice has changed completely as he looks up at her, his shoulders crumpling inwards.  
  
"Did it hurt?" However steady his gaze, pressure erupts in his throat, behind his eyes, clouds in his nose. It doesn't sound like he's still talking about her conception for some reason, and Olivier draws breath quick and hot.   
  
"The--ritual, did he hurt you?"   
  
Strange choice of words, she thought quickly as he said he would know everything. Would, not wanted to, but would. The curiosity must have been there for a long time and why wouldn't it be? And she couldn't deny a small moment to be pleased that in a way she could help him, even now, even knowing he might become interested in the ritual to use for himself instead of understanding how he and Tony came to be, and a hope that maybe the witch knew more that would help him.  
  
"Fertility treatments," she repeated wry and then shook her head once before shrugging, "I suppose that's one way to look at it." Her throat was closing, which meant she couldn't stay quiet for very long or risk not being able to say anything once it did. At least, that's how it felt.  
  
"Marcus, yes, I remember him." At that time she had thought no man more dangerously enchanting than Remington. Then she had met his maker and realized she had been wrong. He hadn't stayed for too long, but he had handed over a parcel. It must have been the totem that Olivier spoke of.  
  
"The witch's name was Isis," she chuckled, "very fitting, I know, but it wasn't a pseudonym. Unfortunately, I don't know her last name. She was in her late forties or early fifties, dark skin, tall, a half foot taller than me." And she always carried a big leather bound book of spells, like all dark magic witches tended to do. Centuries and centuries of practices passed down through certain families in those books. Belle had tried to touch it but it had shocked her before she even made contact.  
  
His next question surprised her, for it didn't seem to follow his previous line of comments at all, the connection having jumped and skipped across a few branches to get to where it was now.  
  
"Not exactly," she spoke quietly, remembering and trying to shudder. "I drank a sticky, frankly...disgusting, potion every day for two months. At first I got migraines, lasted a few weeks, then fevers. Then the actual ritual...," she faltered, swallowed and then exhaled, letting her hands go when she realized she was wringing them.  
  
"It was more scary than painful," she finally decided to say before adding, "And, I was warned of what it entailed, made aware of it; I chose it still." She would have done anything for Remington, for them, and to selfishly go against nature and have what she thought she would have to give up to be with him: children.  
  
"I do know that the ritual also took a lot out of your father as well. He didn't say it, but I could tell. A century without feeling fatigue or weariness left him not as prepared as he would have liked, I think. He recovered quickly enough but I stayed bed-ridden for most of the pregnancy."  
  
The quick qualifications wash over him, landing somewhat squarely on his shoulders as he sees how uncomfortable she got. Sure you chose it, he thinks, just as I chose to kill for him (but he shouldn't think on those dark days). Still, he was thankful. Dad had his way, but he didn't force Belle to love him, anymore than he forced Oli's own love.   
  
Dad wouldn't want him to ask these questions. They were his private business, and his heart had been closest guarded, cool and like a stone. (Had anything truly touched it? But that thought makes him wince.) If Olivier had known what he wanted, then he became a liability instead of a strength and credit to his illustrious name. Know what a man wants and you own him. But you're not a man, Oli had said confidant he was right, and neither am I. How Dad's smirk had warmed him! It warmed him still.  
  
So he hadn't asked him what price was paid for him to exist, but he wants to ask now.  
  
"Isis." He echoes, drily. "Why, that sounds almost as if a charlatan made it up." Then Olivier cocks his head, bemused, "Though I suppose, what better place is there it hide than in plain sight pretending you don't take yourself seriously?"  
  
Or maybe she's actually Egyptian, Oli thinks, folding his arms on his chest. His gaze hasn't left his mother as she explains, but now he smiles honestly.  
  
"It wore him out?" Conceiving them? Oh, for heavens--there were too many jokes there.   
  
"...Too easy."   
  
He offers in the end, too busy being delighted that it actually cost him. Why didn't Tony want to know this? He'd thought maybe he was concerned Belle had been hurt, or forced--but wouldn't he be glad to have that worry relieved?   
  
(Wouldn't he want to know Dad was willing to hurt himself, just to be able to have him?)  
  
"What did Isis tell you? You were warned--warned of what?" The question was soft. "And didn't she--say what we might be?"  
  
"Well, she was no charlatan," she shook her head, understanding the humor nevertheless. Isis was the Egyptian goddess of fertility. The first thought would be to think that the name was specifically chosen as a joke. Purposeful choice made much sense that an odd coincidence, especially to people who didn't believe in coincidence and Remington hadn't, so it wasn't a stretch to assume that Olivier didn't either.  
  
His next statement confused briefly, before she caught on and then could only roll her eyes once, eyebrows arching before she shook her head muttering, "Men." Then she chuckled once and decidedly moved on.  
  
There was something in that 'Men' that makes Olivier think she actually was referring to 'D'Grey men', but he smiles either way. He would. He'd always smirked, proud of his last name, proud of that legacy.   
  
"She told me the potential side effects I might have. Uneasiness, paranoia, chronic weight loss, pulmonary failure, heart failure. Most of those faded within a few months, now I just have insomnia. I get about 3 hours a week, nothing helps." She shrugs and then immediately waved it off, momentarily uncomfortable; she didn't want to whine.  
  
"She didn't tell me what you might be. I asked if it would hurt you and she said no, so I went through with it. Maybe I should have doubted, asked more but I trusted your father. And I guess I...didn't want to know."  
  
Three hours sleep a week? Olivier's heart skips, but he decides quickly: they'd taken everything so seriously until now, they had to find some things they can joke about.  
  
"Well see, now I know where I get it from." Dad didn't sleep at night at all, the sun rising was his queue to sleep naturally. And Dad was never very natural.   
  
Pushing the bar away from him he adds, happily now as he listens, and then walks to sit next to her now as he considers.  
  
"She might not have known. All my research..." And he does have...everything, that Dad had, and now that eye of Horus on a book makes more sense, "...And I've yet to run across another successful case. It could just be that they were killed young, or kept themselves secret. Or we might be the first, in Europe anyway. I wouldn't be surprised if they were killed young, everything we found out growing up...I did first, and it was...trying."  
  
"Well it obviously wasn't from your father," she ventured, a small smirk on her lips before she shook his head, "that man didn't skip his eight hours." Always eight, precisely eight, like clockwork every single day. He always found time for it.  
  
The traces of the previous smirk dissolve into a softer smile as she follows him with her gaze as he sits down again, no longer behind the desk but a chair next to her.  
  
"I thought it was...unprecedented," she admitted, somehow it had slipped away from her the fact that this wouldn't have occurred before. But surely some people must have tried, whether they succeeded or not was a different issue. Could Remington have tried before hand as well? Were there sons he could have lost before Olivier and Antonio?  
  
The thought of dying children made a shiver travel down her back and she was suddenly so thankful. Even now, knowing what she did and how it would turn out, she still would have chosen to have them.  
  
"But maybe she does know. Isis didn't strike me as the type of woman to fly blind."  
  
"And it's old." Olivier said, before realizing she couldn't know what he meant by 'it' unless she read his mind, the very thing he'd already accused her of asking him to do. With a brief flick of his lips he clarifies, brushing down his eyebrows with a licked thumb tip.  
  
"The ritual, it has to be old. That totem was four centuries old at least. Whatever it is the press says about my ego, and it is likely mostly true," he chuckles once, "I'm not fool enough to assume in two thousand years of recorded history there's never been another."   
  
Just that they were the only ones present in Europe, and if Dad hadn't been as influential as he was, they might have killed him for it too. His fingers touch his throat. Her heart was steady, if loud in his ear, and for the first time he thinks it calms him.  
  
Belle nodded, understanding more clearly now that Olivier explained it. Even if she didn't know exactly what the omen was for, Isis handled it and then Remington, never her. It was a powerful object though. When it was activated it vibrated so fast it almost seemed still, the humming sound in the air only gave it away. To avoid tempting an ill-mannered joke though, she kept that to herself. If her previous comment had been 'too easy', this one would have been impossible to resist.  
  
"So Isis might have known. But then, Tony and I are both...very different already, in handling it--I think if he had never tasted blood himself he might never have craved it. Me, it..." He brushes across his throat again, voice weighted, "...it was anger, then just seeing it. And then I...don't remember."  
  
He clears his throat, eyes flicking back up to her face.   
  
"But you didn't know. You really--didn't know, you weren't concerned, you didn't care?" He misses a beat, barely catches his breath. "...Thanks. I needed to know that."  
  
Then he leans back in his chair, smile soft but eyes cloudy with his clear need to be alone as he adds, "...And I think Tony could use the company. Dani made him more cookies in the kitchen too if you want to bring them."  
  
"Could there be other things about your nature that you don't know of?" Not so much perhaps in abilities but maybe in other characteristics like life-span. Olivier and Antonio were half vampire, did that mean they could potentially live longer than most humans, most wizards? The details of it were something she was both anxious to hear more about and wary.  
  
So Olivier was triggered by the anger first, Tony by the taste of it? They were different even among themselves, was that also a reason for why Olivier had better control? Was seeing blood all that it took to set Tony off now? He couldn't live like that.  
  
"I'm only twenty-five," he says first thoughtfully, "or...soon, twenty-six. I'm probably due for another revelation in that department." Contrary to his inherent bitterness, as he stands and slides his hand into his back pocket, he smiles. Then he relates, free hand in the air, wiggling back and forth to his words.  
  
"Five when I learned I had a brother, ten when Tony came to live with me, fifteen when I first learned about the blood lust, twenty when we went undercover..." He trails off, then waves off. (Off, off, off.) It only just occurs to him now that Belle didn't know any of it. Strange. He'd been accusing her of not asking on his life; now he speaks as if she knew it all already. Except all of those were...  
  
"Long stories." Ones he never told either; even Daniella didn't know most of them. Was that what Belle had meant by close? Hans knew by virtue of guessing, but otherwise...he only has Tony.   
  
At the question, she shook her head once, slowly, unsure if that line of his questioning was good or bad. She noted his fallen shoulders, his heavier eyes, and his retreating posture and realized the conversation was coming to a close.  
  
"If she's not going, I'd be happy to take them to him," she nodded, moving her hair out of her face and swallowing a small lump in her throat as she looked at Olivier again.  
  
"I don't wish for this conversation to have been an isolated event, you know. I'd like to keep talking, once everything...settles down to its normal level of chaos." She smiles briefly and then goes to stand, smoothing out her skirt.  
  
"I should get going before visiting hours are over."  
  
His neck lifts slowly at the addendum. Her hopeful look was one he's sure to see in his dreams that evening (or whenever he got his three hours, but he felt exhausted now).  
  
"Yeah. Though that was uh--more than uh--," he chuckles but only once, "...I don't promise to be so open always."  
  
He just couldn't. And he has to run out of revelations one of these days doesn't he?!  
  
So he adds as he waves the door open for her.  
  
"Or angry. That either."  
  
He had been fifteen? And he had gone undercover? Her eyes widened before they narrowed in confusion and curiosity, before she ultimately had to nod to realize that those where going to be conversations for another time, possibly a long time away but that was okay. She could wait however it took for him to be comfortable enough, and she expressed it vocally, traces of a smile still lifting her mouth.  
  
"I understand." She nodded. Belle had caught him off-guard and also put him on the defensive (though unintentionally). A person was less likely to have a filter and just say what came to mind under those circumstances. There wouldn't be the same circumstances in any future meeting. She would also look forward to one where he wasn't so angry, but baby steps.  
  
"Thank you," she chooses to say instead as she reaches the door and hesitates on a farewell. Neither goodbye or see you later or until next time were sufficient. But him hearing her out, him understanding her to a point, him not throwing her out of the manor, him coming to find her and his sisters in the first place...it was courageous. He owed her nothing, but she had to make up for everything.  
  
She smiles again, nodding her head before moving out the door and out of the room, feeling a lot lighter than when she had first walked in, though it didn't last long. You couldn't exactly float on air with your head in the clouds when you were on your way to give your imprisoned younger son cookies in jail.  
  



	11. Personal Growth? Yay!

Riiiiing. Riiiiiing. Riiiiing.  
  
What was the point of one of her best friends having super sonic hearing if he was never ever going to pick up his cellphone?! She needed him! He needed to be available to her 24/7! What if she were in the bottom of a ditch right now? Her foot fractured, all assaulted and flailing. It could be an emergency!  
  
In which...she would probably dial 9-9-9 first. Dillon second. Nadia third but let her believe it was second. But Alcott was definitely a solid fourth! She would call him fourth in the middle of her despair and he was just not going to be there?  
  
"Listen you kumquat bitch," she began reprimanding at a mobile that still rang in her ear, "unless you're in the middle of something more important than me, OF WHICH THERE IS LITTLE OF, you better get your shit together and answer the bloody pho- Alcott! Baby! What's up?" Her tone immediately changed with a beam as she finally got an answer.  
  
"You busy?"  
  
Well, that pulled the image from his mind. Bemused at the mid-shout Irene, Alcott leaned against the pillar behind his house and decidedly drowns himself in trying to figure out what she looked like. Irene's faces when she was irate went from strangely adorably terrifying to strictly gorgeous and intimidating. Much, much better than what he'd just seen in the game room.   
  
(I mean, sure, he didn't blame his parents for getting it on when they thought he was out and in the privacy of their home? You should never constrict Brackners to beds. But--  
  
Fuckdidhereallynotneedthatimagethinkthey'dmindifheburnedthatcouch?-)  
  
"Rene." Alcott cut out, rubbing his constantly feverish pulse over his throat and smirking into the snow, "Thank the Goddess you called. Drinks are on me. Where're you? I'd invite you over here but uh, my parents seem to be having adult playtime in every room."  
  
The Goddess of course was her, so redundant! She was glad to hear he was happy she'd called, apparently he needed drinks of his own! Perfect. Only not so perfect, apparent Mr. and Mrs. Brackner were having a great time! She restrained a giggle but the smirk remained on her face as she walked.  
  
"Er, Paris, actually," she looked around at the beautiful city and found it hard to believe how much rotten shit really went down around her. No wonder people just walked along in ignorance. Irene hated ignorance though, she strove to eliminate it from her life.   
  
"But I'm on my way back home, shouldn't take a jiffy! Wanna go downtown?" She really should have waited until she was back home to make the call but as soon as she knew she was definitely out of Ansel's earshot, she reached for her phone and called her bestie.  
  
Bemused and cocking an eyebrow, Alcott decides against reminding her that no, he couldn't. As his body runs a constant temperature of about one-oh-five, he barely remembers cold. That was likely a weakness he should look into (after all, Devin's weird-ass force-choke move made it obvious Hunters could potentially do anything, like chill him out) but, eh. Not right now. He didn't mention it to Rene though. She'd had enough of asshole werewolves telling her about how Hot they were, he figures.   
  
Chuckling over the smooching noise and only adding 'see you', he clicks the phone off and pockets it. Dallying on the step, he purses his lips and calls over his shoulder, "Going downtown! For a few hours!"  
  
He smirks when there was no response, adding light, "Have fun!", and then crouched down and jogs off the bag steps, taking a running leap to transform.  
  
"Spring collection, Alcott! Don't you feel that cold trying to leave our bodies? Time to prepare!" That wasn't entirely inaccurate. After training with Audrey at the D'Grey manor (which she hated, but who else had as many books on dark magic? It intrigued even her grumpy friend), she had every intention of looking around. Meh, no longer. She supposed she could simply go to Kensington High Street tomorrow or something. Retail therapy always followed drinking therapy.  
  
"Sounds perfect doll, see you then!" She made smooching noises and then clicked the call over. That should be enough time to travel home, thank you magic.  
  
An hour later, right on schedule, she was stepping through the door of Martini's, and it took her less than half a second to spot Al and then proceed to run over to him, throwing her arms around his wide shoulders and squeezing him into a hug.  
  
Getting there before Rene just meant he'd already made friends with the barmaid and has their vodka shots all ready. Smirking as she engulfs him in a hug, he catches her, lifts, squeezes.   
  
"Hello luv'. Ah, hold up."  
  
Oh, she -was- cold, he realized as he pulls back, chuckling and pointing at her side.  
  
"Where exactly is the Spring collection haul? I'd have thought you were half conning me into carrying half of Paris's stores home for you."  
  
Kissing his cheek loudly, she was beaming brightly at how -warm- he was, it was like having your own personal human electric blanket. Her smile however faded over his shoulder. Oh shit, right. This plan was obviously not very thought true. This is why she didn't lie! Even if lie here had the meaning of manipulating the truth- oh fuck, this was horrible. How could people live like this?!  
  
"Oh I dropped them off, before, Gordon's flat is...," she sighed, pulling back and then admitted, "I didn't reach the stores." She couldn't -lie- to him! Seeing the first shot, she reached for it and threw it back, sighing as it burned her throat. Yes, good, another.   
  
Woah. Wide-eyed as he surveys the quick downing, his smirk honestly just continues to widen. Letting out a breath, he chuckles and grabs for his own shot, dousing his throat in yet more flames before speaking.  
  
"Damn girl, you're gonna put me to shame. I'll get more." He signals Larissa, then looks back to her, sitting on the bar stool.  
  
"You know, I had a feeling. Tell me Dev put Whatshisname D'Grey, in the hospital." He knew Tony was in jail already, so.   
  
Irene sits next to him, shrugging off her coat again and draping it over her lap. Her clutch purse she smacked on top of the counter as she ran a hand through her short hair. She had only finally gotten used to the fact it abruptly stopped right on her neck. She was thinking of growing it just a little bit longer again, just a bit more length...except then she would wear the right outfit and the hair would compliment it and she'd appear totally chic and then she changed her mind all over again.  
  
"No," she chuckles, "nothing like that. I almost put myself in the hospital though, I think trying to give aneurysms has only worked on giving myself one." She groaned, shaking her head. It was ridiculous. It was also not the source of her needing booze, but that's fine.  
  
"Hey, maybe if I give you one, you could blur out a certain image from your mind," she teased with a smirk.  
  
"Aneurysms? Hold -- ah, thanks Larissa -- hold, hold up," he accepts the next two shots and slides hers to her while his hand lifts. "You were serious about Audrey tutoring you too?"  
  
Why in the hell did they need to go to Paris for that though? Yeah, he bought Tony avoiding Devin's dad but, the bloke was in prison. Couldn't Audrey practice here now?   
  
Fine, not the point. Toasting the air and downing that shot too the moment she brought that up, he chases it and his immediate groan away with a head-shake.  
  
"Yeah, well, I just may take you up on that. Bit surprised to tell you the truth, that it took that long though...way my parents were always described to me they couldn't keep their hands off each other. Which. I mean, they have been moving around the manor basically as one hand-locked super being, but."  
  
Oh, who was he even kidding anymore, Al loves it.   
  
"Yeah! We have a business agreement. In case you haven't noticed, the number of supernatural friends I have has grown! And my supernatural friends have supernatural enemies! That may or may not use me to get to all of you, or maybe they have a fixation with myself but I mean, who blames them look at me, either way! I need a boost. Just something that makes sure I don't get my neck snapped, okay? I'm not paranoid, this is our lives now." She exhaled, immediately grabbing the second shot as it was poured by Larissa, and downed that one too.  
  
"So that's why I was in Paris. Audrey doesn't want to practice at her house, because things could go wrong and her siblings might be put in danger, and we can't practice at -my- house without tipping off the Pharma agents on the underage magic. I guess we could move this to Devin's house for the time being." Meaning, while Tony was in jail. And he wouldn't be for too long, he was getting out.  
  
Irene manages a giggle at Al's description, beaming as she realizes how happy he really was at even having the opportunity to be traumatized by his parents. Aww.  
  
"You know you love it," she teased, nodding her head. It was so plain on his face.   
  
Months ago, he wouldn't have been able to parse through that long explanation. However, Alcott was thrilled and moreover proud to cut through Irene's words to the heart of something bothering her. Or, maybe he was paranoid, but.  
  
"Yeah okay so, far as I knew we threw out or helped Pharma arrest said supernatural enemies, apart from those in Paris who I really don't care that much about to be frank, but," and he points at Irene's nose, eyes wide, "Only one of them, was obsessively creepy-psycho to you alone."  
  
And that wolf had left, right? Right? His eyebrow asked for him, then breaks off laughing going for the water glass besides the shots.  
  
"Yeah, yeah, I do. Can't help it. I'm a sucker. I'm not surprised Brackner sentimentalism involves touring the locations of greatest fucks either, let's be real here."  
  
Sipping the water, he brushes his ankles around the edges of the stool and leans into the bar, relaxing. He smirks, "Because practicing at the -leader- of pharma's house doesn't tip them off? Yeah, fine, I see your point. Still. Aren't you worried some wanker'll show up begging for a loan extension of some kind and start shooting people?"  
  
Blunt wasn't a style, it was a gift.  
  
"Okay but, -I- do care," she raised her eyebrows, "Stefanie and Tony are my friends and Olivier is...," she pursed her lips and tilted her head as she searched for the correct term. It was very difficult, the man seemed to shrug off any labels that weren't capo and big brother. Oh, and boyyyfriend. Tony complained about it enough. She thought he was equal parts happy for his brother and also jealous he had to share attention.  
  
"I'll come back to that in a few more shots," she decided, tapping the bar quickly four times in a small drumroll.  
  
"It wasn't," she began to protest the words he used to describe said fixation but then had to admit, yes, yes, "it was." She nodded once, twice, and then whoops, too tipsy to pick up on that unspoken question not her fault! Cough.  
  
"Oh that must be so weird though. You've probably, statistically, shagged Hols in one of those same places." Irene laughed, finding it so amusing. You would think in such a big house...but she was probably right. She tended to be.  
  
"...Shh, it makes sense!" She reprimanded him, pushing his shoulder with hers, except he didn't budge because he was rock hard. Werewolves.  
  
Tilting her head as she looked at Al in exasperation (and amusement) at his question, especially because it was a legit concern, she shook her head. Honestly, you had to be more careful of what was inside those walls than of anything else that would try to get in. Like the hungry hungry hippos that were Olivier, Stefanie and Antonio. The last two she called Antonie affectionately. It was their couple name.  
  
"Honestly, I'm more worried about getting shot at *Audrey's* house, which is why *I* don't want to practice there, but shh."  
  
"It's a good thing I never excelled at statistics then. Just wand making, football, attractiveness and you know, memorizing the pathways neural synapses."  
  
Not that Alcott didn't still do a quick jerk of his finger to get another vodka shot. Two was pittance to werewolf tolerance anyways. With a little smirk, he takes another sip of his water glass, chuckling away her shoulder-jab. In fact, he even moved on purpose after making sure she knew it was on purpose and he was doing her a favor. Nodding absently, he continues chuckling abruptly as she corrects herself.  
  
"Yeah, all right, fair point sure. I'd be worried about that. Well. I'd be worried about that if shooting me without solid silver or anywhere but the heart was actually useful to killing me, but."   
  
Oh sue him, he enjoys being proud about that, all right. There has to be some perks, okay?  
  
"I'll shush either way. Though hey. You've got a first-class pass to the inside of D'Grey manor. That's gotta be worth something, huh?"   
  
"Oh only that, no big deal!" She waved her hand and then shook her head, grinning either way. That's one thing she loved about Al: no false modesty. Actually, no modesty of any kind, they didn't teach the Brackners that.  
  
As Alcott signaled for more shots, she realized they really would be better off grabbing a full bottle. Her, Alisha, Nadia, and Trent could finish one in a night easily, and Alcott had a tolerance better than all of them combined. He was like Captain America. His metabolism and the body temperature...there was a scientific explanation here somewhere, Irene just couldn't explain it properly.  
  
"Or beheaded. Bleeeeeuugh," she reached for her neck, passing her fingers over it much like Jafar in Aladdin. There was a 50/50 chance that he understood the reference.  
  
"A lot of them are going recently, actually. You would think he'd worry about his street cred with a bunch of teenagers walking in and out of there." Then again, apparently no one published anything bad against him ever so.  
  
"Though if even the mention of how in a crowded coffee shop is enough to make it get all quiet...that's insane- ah!" She brightened as a couple of more shots were put in front of them.  
  
"Lovely," she clinked this one against Al's before drinking it too.  
  
"I think that's the kind of thing where once he's worrying about his street creed it's already lost, you know?"   
  
Alcott shrugs, picking the glass up to clink and then shoot down. He got that. He'd been prince of their football team once. Smirk lifting in memorium, he lets the glass sit again and starts toying with the napkin. Sitting still was not his strong point. Even less than statistics, actually, but shhh he didn't have to admit any of this.   
  
Besides, he was trying to focus on -- yup, he knew there was something strange in that statement.  
  
"We're not in a coffee house." Okay, way to state the obvious. Did the D'Grey's have a coffee house in their house? Even for them that seemed extreme. Or...genius, hey, wait...  
  
(Funny how often those two things mixed, wasn't it?)  
  
"It got all quiet when you said his name in a coffee shop? Damn. No wonder it went to the kid's head, right?"  
  
Alcott wasn't speaking from experience, nooo, of course not.    
  
"I don't know, I'm not a mobster. I just play one on tv," she joked, but now knew that as a Halloween costume 'mobster' was no longer a viable option. Besides, it was frankly scary how much Dillon's mother hated the Italian mafia, really bloody scary. Or rather, Italian stereotypes in general actually. Irene didn't find it in her heart, or courage, to tell her she was definitely Overprotective Italian Mother, trademarked.   
  
"No, really, Al? Because the smell of alcohol and nuts didn't tip me off to that," she looked around and then added, "oh, beer nuts too." She smirked, finally taking a sip of the water that had been provided for her. Irene had to force herself actually, to stay hydrated, otherwise things would not be very fun for her but isn't that what she was trying to go for?  
  
Hmm, she might have a drinking problem. To which she only tapped the bar with the shot glass as if that could make more appear for her.  
  
"Right? Crazy. So many...crazy things in this world. In Paris. Lots of crazy shit there. How could this happen?"  
  
Oh, his darling Irene. She was far from a light weight in some places as could be, but right now? He started grinning realizing okay yeah, she had three shots in under ten minutes here. His tolerance was literally supernatural; she had nothing to be ashamed of.  
  
"Crazy, yeah, it's been pretty bleeding insane lately." But in his mind, a pretty good insane. Eliza was alive. Nadia was somehow adorable and bad ass at the same time. His father.     
  
Taking a quick sip, he smiles and continues, "But c'mon you've gotta tell me something that goes on there. Tell me D'Grey paints unicorns and horses or something."  
  
She nodded in full agreement. Way crazy, super crazy. And she had just come back from listening to the most crazy/heartbreaking/oww-it-hurts-make-it-stop story there was. Well, in her experience on this earth. But, shh, she wasn't telling anyone because it wasn't her story to tell. Not even alcohol was enough to make her talk, and she was nowhere near done. And see, this time she made sure to bring someone with her to take her back home! All was good.  
  
"Umm," she threw her mind around for potential dirty and embarrassing secrets to divulge. Problem was, it was so difficult because everything in that house was squeaky clean, except for that giant hole in the wall of one room. And all the bones of the innocent the foundation was built on, but that was less literal not to mention Tony's words, not hers.  
  
"Wow, nope. He's boring. Besides the whole...secretly running France bit. And the hybrid bit. I would love to say that there's a hidden shrine of hair products, no a full room! Of hair products, and that he gives his hair pep talks and has all the products arranged alphabetically and by date of purchase but no." She sighed and shook her head.  
  
"Unless I'm psychic!"  
  
Chuckling--he couldn't help it, the rapid burst of information that wasn't information so much as rambling about D'Grey's hairstyle (he wasn't sure if she was making fun of how much he liked his hair or how much -she- liked his hair). Point of fact, he didn't think he'd get much out of her on the manor.  
  
That was just fiiine by Alcott. Have a nice life, D'Greys, sayanora--that was what he wanted to say. Aggravating when his friends kept insisting on tying him back...though yeah, okay, Devin was trying to control an urge to -kill- him, so. He was all right with that too. And Rene wasn't wrong to think she'd benefit from such a boost.  
  
Bemused, he said, "So...alphabetical hair care products aren't boring, but, being a human slash vampire slash wizard secretly running France and babysitting the vampire sister of a werewolf who, snapped my neck...that's boring."  
  
He paused, then his face broke wide as he says simply, "Have I mentioned lately how much I love you, Irene? Because I do. Just, loads."   
  
He toasts her (though this time with a water glass). Irene was upset about something--or she had been, so he was all right not dwelling on it. Shrugging a shoulder, he can't help but add, "You know, you make it sound like Tony getting out of prison is a sure thing. Which hey, I barely know the guy...and from the little Dad and Dev have said, he doesn't really seem to deserve being locked up; hell, I know I made the choice to let Rachelle go. But." He shrugs, laughing incredulously, "I mean, just, damn. What -is-, up with Paris? Actually, don't answer that." He shrugs it away, amused, "Must admit I don't understand fighting so hard for that city. I mean London I could understand."  
  
"Yep that sounds about right!" She nodded, agreeing brightly and refusing to be painted as idiotic. Not that Al would ever do that to her, and even if his declaration of love was bordering on condescending even if he was being sincere and he was, she loooved him still.  
  
"I love you too, luv," she winked and then reached for...sigh, her glass of water. Something told her this Larissa was going to look out that she didn't drink too much too quick. It was sweet, and annoying, but mostly sweet! It was just bad luck to toast with a non-alcoholic beverage. Or empty glasses, one of the two.  
  
"Aside from the fact that the evidence is bogus, and that he's not being handled by the correct authorities, and the simple fact that the power of my will will return him to us cause I miss him," she nodded and then smiled, "Olivier won't let that happen. They've got that thicker than water thing down pat. I wish I had a brother."  
  
After a sip she realized, whoops, she already did. Right.  
  
"Well, you know," she waved her hand and then wiggled her eyebrows at Al, "you might get a brother of your own now! Or a sister! Can you tell I just really enjoy the look on your face when you're reminded your parents are having sex?" It really was hilarious, and adorable, and distracting. The last was the most important one here, while the first two were tied for second.  
  
"You're so English. As am I, but still, Al! It's the city of looove, be romantic!"  
  
"Olivier, right. Ha. Not just a bunch of teenagers traipsing through his mob inc, but those who knows his first name."  
  
Alcott was swinging a finger through the air, jabbing out at 'first' like a mega-excited little 'you're number one!' going to his words. Rah-rah!   
  
(Yeah, he almost choked on his water too.)  
  
"Yeah yeah but he's guilty. I mean. He is, right?" It had seemed pretty obvious to Alcott he was without confirmation, but he was trying this whole 'wait for the facts' thing. Paris should try it. And France should take after him.   
  
Alcott stills, the 'I wish I had a  brother' comment lifting his gaze from his glass and his thoughts from the description of these brother's thick-as-thieves.  
  
Softer, if only for a moment, as he remarks, "Well, you have me. I'm better."  
  
He just wasn't modest. If that was his worst crime (it's not), then yup, lock him up to!   
  
Smile softening, he fidgets in the chair as he contemplates. "Ma was pregnant before once, actually." Swirling the water in the glass, his elbow digs into the bar while he meets her gaze.  
  
"So I'm kinda trying to...be leary of bringing it up, you know, sensitive. Not my strong suit. But I know they always wanted more kids, so! Yeah, you're probably right actually, and come on, isn't that romantic enough for me?"  
  
"I know, that does get annoying actually. As if it's some huge deal, it's a name. A rose by any other name would...still prick you by surprise with its thorns," she nodded enthusiastically, half sure she had gotten that half right. So she was 30% right, at least, right? Wow, she was as hopeless at fractions while drunk as Lynn.  
  
"Yeaaaaah, but werewolves living in glass houses shouldn't throw stones, honey," she tweaked his nose affectionately. After all, a certain puppy got too rough with a certain chew toy on his first full moon. It was basically the same concept here. Except that the chew toy survived. Well, until a month ago, good riddance! She'd have a shot for that actually.  
  
"Oh, without a doubt luv," she agreed, wrapping an arm around his shoulder...or at least she tried to, but it didn't get all the way around it. Broadest fucking shoulders in the world really. He could be like a cocoon of warmth if he wanted and charge people for it. Like a cuddle hooker.  
  
"Oh," she frowned, not having known that. That sucked big big dick. She shook her head, "Shit man. Yeah I can see why you'd be wary...damn. Well!," she spoke determined not to be unhappy, "all the more reason! You'll see. And then your mom will be the best taken care of pregnant lady in the world. I give it another month, tooops.   
  
And no, silly, it isn't. You're so lucky overly romantic things make Hols gag." Irene giggled, not sure if that was true but it seemed like it!  
  
"Larissa, love, can we have another round please?"  
  
Alcott snorts, pretty sure that, you know, wasn't how it went (and isn't her boyfriend a Shakespearean scholar?) -- but he kind of likes Rene's version better. Dillon probably would too. It fit with the whole spawn of Satan thing those brothers had going for them.   
  
Nose wrinkling, he points out, "I didn't kill anyone." But, he waves it off. Like he thought before: he let Rachelle go. She had. Smirk widening, he adds, "Though I like to think I took a chunk out of Roswell before my Dad killed him. Si, I get your point."  
  
He would toast that too, but was preoccupied by her cuddling up into his shoulder. Bemused, he shifts so he's embracing her instead. That couldn't have been comfortable for either of them, seriously. Besides! To put it mildly, he didn't mind the extremely-attractive-hilarious-sexy-compassionate-goddess hanging on him. His smirk was wider and wider actually.   
  
"Don't worry about it," he shrugs the shoulder holding her, sipping the water with the other hand. For once, he meant it, relaxed and not bitter. "You didn't know. No one does really. I mean. I'd love a sibling too." His eyes cloud (he still was awkward over the whole 'wish I had a brother' when, you know, she did). But hey, that was what he loved about Irene, what always worked between them so well--no matter how awful or rude, they tended to say what they felt. So he tilts his head and adds, "I mean. It'd be weird. Ma does have a tendency to try and...replace, I mean, Dev could tell us how normal that is. Bet it is. Like, buying me Satan when Dad died."  
  
And he saw no need to correct 'died' because flatly, at that time he was dead, and that was how he meant 'replaced.'   
  
"But hey. I love that mangy monster. And having Satan did help, so, if a new baby would help them too -- good, great!, for them."  
  
He smirks as he mouths to Larissa it was fine; he had her, she sighs and then goes to get them another round. Twisting his neck to look down at Irene, he smirks as he adds, "You know. It's almost been a year since Sie accused me of hitting on you and you of trying to steal me in a bar much like this one. We should make plans for our anniversary!"  
  
"I have, kinda, it was an accident. They ruined my shirt," she paused, realizing that was not the best defense out there and then shook her head. Oh, right, they had also cursed her! But she bounced back from that, her poor sweater had to be thrown out. Sayonara.  
  
Now Irene scoffed, then scoffed again, blowing air out of her pursed lips pointedly before declaring, "As if anyone could replace Alcott Brackner! Macho, handsome, genius, secret-good-guy Alcott Brackner. And if they do have a baby, honey, you mustn't be jealous because loving someone new does not take away the love for someone else. Love isn't a competition, but if it were I'd win, because everybody loves me." Where was she going with this again? She scratched the back of her head and then frowned as she felt the bloody dent again. Blegh. Well, not everybody did apparently.  
  
"I love that dog, he can tell I'm at the door from the other side of that manor! I bring him treats," she beamed and nodded, happy that Alcott was all for whatever helped his parents, even if it would be kind of awkward for him. The potential new baby would get to grow up with his father, the whooole time. Fortunately, Al had protective instincts. And if it was a girl, he wouldn't feel so replaced! It'd just be an addition! 50/50 dice roll right there. Fingers crossed.  
  
"Aww it has!" She suddenly sat up from leaning on his shoulder, her grin wide. Irene remembered that night perfectly even though she was intoxicated and even though she was intoxicated now. Even though she got a concussion walking back because Al left early. She had taken care of herself though, okay?! It was fine, she had them all knocked out and was walking back but passed out herself. That was a win for her, nothing else.  
  
"If I had been trying to steal you I would have succeeded, she's a silly goose. Our one year anniversary has to be special! We should get a cake!"  
  
They...ruined her shirt? He wants to crack up, but was stuck on feeling for a moment it probably said something about their progression from teenagers to the supernatural Scooby Gang that he didn't find it an unreasonable complaint. Someone trying to kill you, you help kill them, then you have to spend hours and hours getting blood stains out of your shirt? That was just rude!  
  
Laughing anyway, he shushes pointedly 'secret good guy', adding aloud, "Oi! You promised to keep that on the DL, luv!" But she kept going, as Rene usually did.   
  
Mmming aloud in general agreement as he accepts the new round from Larissa, he shrugs as he puts his arm right back around her.   
  
"I'm a jealous guy, I can't help it. But it's kind of strange. It used to be like it was...like I needed to make sure I didn't lose something important. Now it's more like...I just want to protect it." Did that make sense? He has the feeling that what seemed such a large difference to him really was just evidence he spent too much time with Devin and was not nearly drunk enough.  
  
"You would win." He agrees absently, because Irene usually would win everything and even if he only half heard it he knew he probably agreed. Then he just bursts out in a bright laugh.  
  
He was pretty sure Sienna was a lot of things, but, silly goose he'd never heard before.   
  
"A cake. Definitely." He smirks, sideways. "Commemorate our friendship coming across frat lines. Personal growth, yay!"  
  
Oh right, shhhhhh. She zipped her mouth, turned the lock at the corner but instead of making to throw away the key, she made the motion to hide it in her cleavage. What better hiding place than there?! Actually, if she thought about it, it wasn't that great a hiding place, Dillon would find it immediately. Then again, if anybody had reason to want her mouth to stay open it'd be him.   
  
"...Yeah!" She nodded after a moment of thinking about it. If you squinted and tilted your head, you could see the sense and distinction. What he was really saying was that his jealousy had really become overprotectiveness for the most part, right? Right!  
  
"Exactly! To personal growth!" She took the shot glass and raised it high, clinking it with Alcott's and then downing it. Great! That was her third- wait, fourth, that was number four. If she had two more she could build a little pyramid out of the shot glasses, but she wouldn't. Irene knew her limits (...she did, just because she chose to ignore them sometimes-) and five was pretty much it. Any more and she would get trashy and sloppy and potentially slutty and her boyfriend was toooo far for that.  
  
"You know what? I have no idea why men were ever so damn finnicky about liberated women." Conservative values, coming from Brackners? Was there ever more hypocrisy inherent than that? Though hypocrisy was kind of their slogan too.  
  
Still, when Irene zips her lips, and shoved the fake key down her chest? "I'm pretty damn sure I admire and respect you at the same time. Hell, I respect you more. Own it, love it, chica."  
  
Clinking the glass to do that shot with her too, he clicks his tongue against his lip and beams as he -- finally, por Dios -- feels a buzz in the back of his mind. Humming a few bars absently of the song playing as if he knew it, he groans as he adds, "Can you believe we have exams coming up? Know what I think? I think the Minister should take that valour medal in honorium they'd awarded my Dad, and either give all of us top marks, or shove it up their arse. I mean we saved half of a city. At the expense of only one little national monument closed for repairs!"  
  
"Were?! Gods, I wish that was all past tense, honey, seriously. Pigs, everywhere to be found," she nodded, her nose wrinkling as she thought of misogynists and  then decidedly gave up on that train of thought lest she depress herself into misery and that's not the way she wanted to be drunk. If she had, she would have gone home straight to her stash and drank alone. No lonesomeness for her, no sir! No bad thoughts either, shh, cast all of them away! Be gone, evil thoughts!  
  
With a giggle, Irene a nodded and beamed at Al. Exactly, definitely exactly. More power to her! More power to women everywhere! Love to aaalll the ladies. Good, very good.  
  
Good movement over, real life creeping in again. Irene groaned and shook her head. No, she didn't want to think about exams either.  
  
"I concur! We've saved lives and done a difference in the world already, and proved ourselves more than capable, whyyy do we need to take exams? I'm behind on homework as it is."  
  
&&  
  
"Right?! Ditto! The world -needs- us, Alcott. We are so much better than just stupid grades and stupid homework and stupid, stupid exams. I don't believe in standardized tests, bogus! Bogus! I'm as a dumb as a rock according to exams and that just isn't true," she shook her head, and then was glad that she was sitting down because she had a feeling she would have fallen on her butt.  
  
"Yeah, you know what all those places have in common? No fucking cell reception or wifi that's what! You can't go! You can't leave me!" Irene hugged his arm again, nuzzling his shoulder with her nose, "Let her go and save the Earth and she can come home on weekends and talk about how she inadvertently became a freedom fighter, or not talk and just shag you silly and then that way you don't have to leaaave," she exhaled with a pout before pulling back abruptly with a small gasp.  
  
"Al, oh my God, that's perfect. You have to. You really do! I seriously have no idea how Reid would have managed without your help, don't tell him I said that, but! You could do the same for werewolves around the world, and bring them over to the light side before they ever go dark, so they never have to suffer through killing the love of their lives, okay yes, Alcott fucking Brackner, you must. It is your destiny. Your new destiny. I can help! I can be like a...liaison!"  
  
Was that the word? Was that what she thought it was? Ummm...hmmm. Nope, she didn't think that was right. Whatever.  
  
"No one!" She assured him in a voice that was higher pitch than usual, "it's a rhetorical situation. Well, not really, I mean-," she quickly recovered, knowing whoops, constant lie detector now that was just fan-fucking-TASTIC. It wasn't.  
  
She dropped her voice, knowing she was getting way too loud, and because the situation called for it, "Rachelle wolfed out and killed her -parents-. There are similar tragedies all over the world, kids and people who've been bitten and have no idea what's happening to them, no control, no hope, and you can help them find it within themselves! Not just give it to them in some twisted, sick, wrong form, you know what I'm saying, you can't be like that werewolf-formerly-known-as-alpha, and YOU NEVER WOULD BE- shhhhh," she shushed herself and then cleared her throat. Ahem.  
  
She smiled, "Alcott Brackner you have the means to help and by Nadia's standards and regulations, if you are able to then you have an obligation to do the right thing. Right? Right! It's section 8, subsection b, paragraph 20, line 29. I'm fucking with you, by the way, it's not an actual codex. Yet." She cleared her throat again and then took a sip of her water as she felt her mouth drying.  
  
"Besides, you have Hols, and Reid has Alisha...but there could be wolfies out there with no one in the world. We have to keep them light side. The 'we' is purposeful, I will be involved. I adamantly insist and stubbornly refuse your....refusal."   
  
&&  
  
"Hear, hear" she agreed after catching herself with her explanation and Al for the most part believing her. He believed her because it was the truth, it was just...circumstantial. Irene wasn't very good at this, especially because she knew she was dying to talk about it with someone but promised she wouldn't. It's not like she could just go 'whoops, I lied!', that just wasn't her style. Thankfully, Al had never been one to prod.  
  
And besides, he -was- a dick. Harrumph.  
  
Smile softening as he leaned to kiss her forehead, oh how she loved those, Irene beamed to hear his words and was even relieved. Good, so whatever crusade he decided to embark on, Irene would help. Duh. Whatever he needed.  
  
"Awww, you can be an alpha couple! She's definitely got enough power to handle some werewolves. And because werewolves are half animals, she'll have more patience about it! It's a win win!"  
  



	12. Let me guess - I'm not the first blonde to come knocking?

Irene hadn't actually planned this out thoroughly. Once the idea had gotten in her mind however, there was no shaking it away. The only ones who might have been capable to make her stop and see reason didn't know of the madness that was running rampart in her head after a certain 'reunion' in a Paris coffeeshop. So, Irene did it, she found out about Gabriel Dorat and made a plan to speak to him.  
  
Her Sheila Holmes' skills were limited, especially because she wanted to keep this hush-hush for now (and everybody else was so busy, she didn't want to bother!), so she didn't gather a home or personal phone, no. What Irene did manage to get was a place of business and an work phone that led to a secretary asking if she wanted to make an appointment.

Thankfully, he's wasn't an E.R. surgeon (anymore?), he specialized in neutro..neuraloly....the brain science. She checked the header of the papers she was filling out to check herself: neurology, right. Therefore, Irene was spared having to feign an injury to set this up. Irene googled 'neurological symptoms' for an idea and saw migraines on the list and decided to roll with that! Perfect, even if it wasn't entirely true anymore, she did get headaches but the point was she was a 16 year old girl with migraines. That warranted some attention, yes? Oui oui.  
  
Irene also noticed on the website a tiny detail, virtually unrecognizable for a normal eye except for the people that knew it. In the information that declared all the health insurance that were accepted and listed some of them out, one of them was Pharmakeia Health. It was wizard speak for 'come all ye magical!' So Irene mentioned the fact was her 'health care provider' to the secretary and poof! She had an appointment.

After handing the secretary all the paperwork, Irene took a seat and waited to be called, flipping through a magazine as she did. Please don't ask her what she was actually going to say and do once she was in there, she hadn't thought that far ahead.

"Vous avez un --"

"Oui, je sais." Gabriel warned her off, not really looking forward to hearing the word 'Pharmakeia' spoken aloud. God bless Laverne, she was a sweetheart, but she couldn't understand the potency of a word she has nothing to do with personally. Even by being his assistant and having the authority to know, she still didn't live with what he did. The "pharm" wasn't spoken of lightly. Similarly, even though he was more than capable of snapping his fingers and having the file fly out for him to catch, he walks over, thanks her, and takes it himself.

It was polite, see. 

"Allez la chercher s'il vous plaît?" He asks, moving to start setting up the equipment as he peruses the file. And as Laverne goes to get the girl, Gabriel begins to believe this was a less than usual appointment. He already knew she was complaining of migraines with no obvious explanation from other doctors -- as well as suffers the same pharmakeia affliction he does -- but the name?

Well, Mademoiselle Irene Burns...that was familiar in ways he wasn't sure he wanted to know. (He certainly didn't usually admit it.) 

"Irene Burns."  
  
She looked up as casually as possible as if she weren't waiting for the door to open and her name to be called. Irene almost missed it with the heavy French accent, her name didn't sound the same. Nevertheless, she quickly gathered herself, leaving the magazine on the little table in front of her and walked forward with a smile.  
  
The secretary led her through a hallway, her kitten heels and Irene's pumps clacking against the tile floor as they walked in silence, even though silence was not a state that Irene preferred to be in but given that her French was...comme ci comme ca, best not to try. Walking through the door of the office as the secretary opened it for her, she walked through with a small 'merci' and turned to face Ansel's brother.  
  
Hellooo, doctor.  
  
"Bonjour," she greeted with a smile that came easy. So it was genetical, huh? Irene felt like Squidward in an episodeof Spongebob Squarepants: oh no, he's hot! But, Irene was so above staring and gazing. She was here with a mission after all.  
  
"Dans le...internet, je.read que vous speak," she pursed her lips and then clapped her hands together and admitted gesturing to herself, "English."

When she first walks in, Gabriel wants to sigh. Of course she was gorgeous. Gorgeous, young and (perhaps most importantly) -- blonde. Of course her hair was shorter than was "right", but he didn't think that a coincidence either. Gabriel learned a long time ago that coincidences do not exist when it comes to his brother. 

With a tiny chuckle at the way she phrases it, he nods absently. French was more natural to him, but with the medical system being as centralized by the state as it was, he wrote his notes in both languages almost by habit at this point.

"Oui, Irene." He answers first, even if it's in French. His accent for English was stiffer, proper, but then so was Gabriel's french. It had been drilled into him ages ago. 

Holding his hand out to introduce himself, his smile was kind (ignoring the obvious little 'woah' from her when she saw him too). 

"I am Dr. Gabriel Dorat. Call me Gabe, if you would prefer." His smile was genial, but his eyes curious in a way he doesn't bother to hide. 

"I understand you have been suffering from migraines?"

That wasn't why she was there. But he wasn't going to introduce it; he wasn't sure what she wants to know, and as officially now he was an only child, it's not exactly information he just volunteers.

"And I apologize for utterly mutilating your language."  
  
Now was not the time to have her weakness for non-English accents come into play. It was going to sit at the back of the room (metaphorically, the room was her mind), pipe down and just let her get through this as professionally as she could. Not that this was a professional meeting...she was actually wishing she did have some migraines now, suddenly poked by a twinge of guilt at using up his time. Irene, however, waved it aside because guilt never got anything done (please don't tell any of her catholic friends).  
  
She shook his hand, a look of vague knowing in his eyes that made Irene feel as if he knew everything already. She could see how that might come off as annoying over an extended amount of time but she was too busy noticing how perfectly symmetrical his face was, and that was disregarding how aesthetically pleasing it was (if one could disregard).  
  
"Yes, well, I might have...embellished on 'migraine', a little. I did have an incident, about two months ago, long story short my head met a marble bench. I went to the doctors and got checked out and I had a concussion and some internal bleeding because my skull caved in a little- I have a dent," she added after a moment, raising her hand to the back of her head, "it's difficult to notice but it's there. Doctors said since obviously I'm okay I shouldn't worry, that trying to 'undent' it might be worse in the long run, and I do get headaches. More frequently now, sometimes they last a full day but I'm not sure if that's because of my head or because of some spell damage that I suffered a month later, but I wanted to check and I was in Paris and..." she drifted off, her lips pursed together before she sighed and took a seat even though he hadn't offered. She hated lying. She wasn't even completely lying and it still felt like lying!  
  
"I don't play poker for a reason, Gabe." Calling him Gabe felt weird...but calling him 'doctor' would have been more weird. She chewed on her bottom lip, wondering how to best spill.

It was hard not to note for him the elevated breathing, but he expects that came from elevated anxiety more than anything else. Which meant he was correct. Lifting his chin as he listens, Gabriel's pen taps against the edge of the file once, twice, and then stops at the word 'dent.' Ah. He did see the noted concussion in the chart, but he was certain a chill went up his spine for a wholly different reason from the mention she brought it up. 

  
And then the mention of poker has him close his eyes, wishing he hadn't accepted the appointment in the first place, sighing as he turns and lays the file on the marble behind him. His hands wrap around the corner of it as he surveys her, eyes lingering on the blond chopped-off hair before he exhales and looks her straight in the eye.

  
"And does playing poker have particular relevance to the migraine," he asks, with a twitch at the corner of his lips, "or to who gave you the concussion, and why you sought the appointment with me?"  
Even though he's smiling and speaking calmly, his left hand is digging into the marble. 

"You could say the latter is a bit of a migraine itself," she grumbled, only it was fully understandable and not under her breath because when did Irene ever not say what she meant? She sighed, looking back to Gabriel Dorat and his brown eyes (thank you merciful mother of mercy they were not green), and then wondered exactly how much he knew. Which she wasn't going to know without asking, or revealing why she was here, which he had seemed to guess anyways. He was a doctor for a reason after all; wicked smart came with the territory, especially for a brain surgeon.  
  
"I would apologize for sticking my nose where it doesn't concern me, only it's been made my concern, so I'm not sorry. I am sorry I'm using your time at work, but I don't imagine doctors have much personal time to begin with and I wouldn't want to intrude on that. Also, you're not listed in the white pages. Also, please don't kick me out, because you'll have to use force and I'm too pretty to go to jail, I'm not stalking you honest! I've been stalked, it's not a pleasant experience, I've just never been that good a swimmer and trying to keep my head afloat in a lot of hullabaloo is exhausting, I mean this metaphorically, oh actual headache," she stopped herself from talking and held the bridge of her nose with two fingers.  
  
She dropped her hand on her lap and then cleared her throat, "Right, you're on a schedule and I'm...I don't know really know why I'm here, apart from yes you're right in your thinly veiled insinuation, but I don't have a goal, I probably shouldn't have come at all, but then again that's exactly why I did. Is that normal? You're a doctor, you would know, right? Wow, nope, I can't stop rambling. Okay, just say anything, throw something up in the air, anything" she gestured with a moving hand after passing a hand through her short hair, "anything except my hair, stop looking at it, I know why you're looking at it, shhhh, Irene, shhh." The last was obviously more of a note to herself. Should she mention that there's a history of mental illness in the family? Oddly enough not from her father's side but he wasn't mental, he was just a prick. Was that an illness? If it was, it was an incurable one.  
  
She cleared her throat and then started over after slapping her thighs with her hands, saying cheerily, "So I've met your brother!"

His lips flick up again as if to say 'yes, you could say that' in complete agreement. The idea of his brother causing a migraine literally was more appealing than the idea of him causing the concussion. Yet Gabriel has to admit, both were equally possible. Grinding teeth in the back of his mouth, he shakes his head once and nods at her, then folds his hands behind his back. The truth was, he couldn't imagine what Irene was doing here, considering that she probably could tell him more about his baby brother than he could enlighten her. 

He nods to remark that yes, he is on a schedule, but all things considered? Perhaps it was a good thing she was there. For his sake as much as hers. 

  
"Yes, I have surmised." He offers in an offhand light lilt, sighing and leaning back against the counter. The marble digs into his back. With his arms lifting to fold across his chest as he looks at her, he continues casually, "And I imagine then that your migraines were mostly fancy to acquire this meeding, which I must say -- I am flattered. And yet I am at a bit of a loss as to...what you hope to achieve."

  
What could he tell her? He hasn't spoken to Ansel in almost nine years, since the unfortunate tragedy with a girl that - admittedly, he'd never liked, but hadn't deserved what she got. Was he surprised? It was probably saddest of all to Gabriel that he couldn't fairly say he was, but considering their own past...

  
He shakes his head, biting down on the tip of his tongue and flicks his thumb against his watch before relaying, "I apologize, I don't mean to stare. I do like your hair."

  
(And yes, it was obvious why it was so captivating to him. Colette's shade had been...unparalleled).

  
Sighing under his breath, he unfolds his arms and remarks calmly, "Irene, I have no intention of throwing anything. I would apologize for whatever transgression my brother has acted upon you, but my brother made it clear years ago he has no intention of regrets, nor relation to me. Most do not know I have one, anymore."

  
It was heavy on his heart, considering how close they had once been.

  
"And if you know why I'm looking at your hair--," which he was more surprised by than anything, "then I surmise you know why. Mademoiselle, je suis très occupé, je ne sais rien de mon frère..." 

  
Gabriel's throat sticks. And he is about to graciously walk out, when his latent thought stops him and he spins around again, hand slipping into his white coat and fiddling with his pen as he remarks, "...You met with Ansel recently? ...How recently?"

He even talked as pretty as he looked. There she went butchering his language but honestly he made English sound a whole lot better than it usually was. Even when saying he had no idea of what she was doing here, it sounded informed and important. That made two of them, because she was similarly at a loss. Irene had been hoping being here would have jump-started her brain into working but that didn't exactly work out.  
  
She also wasn't comforted by Gabe saying that she liked her hair. Like his brother, Irene felt like if they focused on it and then stopped seeing her in favor of haunted sad memories. It was irking. Irene wasn't particularly proud but neither was she ashamed of the fact she needed frequent attention focused on her, it was just a part of who she was and really people should just give her what she wanted. Shh, pay no attention to the fact that at this moment she didn't know what she wanted.  
  
"He already apologized for himself," she quickly replied, surprised when her tone became oddly...protective and defending. No, that wasn't right. Let's play a game of one of these things is not like the other, and then let's throw that other into the sea inside of a locked chest with weights attached so it would never be seen again.  
  
Gabe and Gordon would get along, Irene realized. Both their names even started with G! (Though that didn't have anything to do with if they would have liked the other or not). Gabe thought Ansel wanted nothing to do with him, mostly correctly, and Irene had expressed to her best buddy Al how she wished she'd had a brother, forgetting that she already had. One doctor, the other a lawyer, favorite sons, yep they would totally get along. Which meant Gabe would either really like her or really hate her. Obviously, she was aiming for the former.  
  
"No hablo French, tres mal," she tried, standing as he automatically went into French to no doubt apologize and try and usher her out of the room, "wait, please, I-" Irene exhaled, blowing a strand of hair out of her face in frustration. Thankfully, he stopped, turning around again before she managed to finish whatever was about to come out of her mouth. She had no clue.  
  
"Five days ago," she answered, feeling the need to be precise rather than just say 'about a week'  
  
"Look, I'm not here to complain or demand apologies or make excuses or grill you for information, I'm...Merlin, I still don't really know what I'm doing -here-, only he found me and he confided in me, and I learned he had a brother, like an actual brother, and I just felt compelled to come here." Irene explained as best as she could without sounding pathetic.  
  
"What can I say? I am...impulsive. I crossed the English Channel, tracked you down, and embellished a migraine, mostly on a whim. Not the craziest thing I've ever done by a long shot but considering the situation, it's pretty up there. Am I making sense at all?"

Gabriel hadn't even noticed that he'd gone into his native language. Another (neon, glaring) sign that all was not well in his sign. About to apologize, he finds himself stalled as he recognizes he was apparently about to do the same as his brother had. The notion of Ansel offering a sincere apology (for it had to be sincere; Gabriel has the feeling this young woman was not easily trumped any longer) was...well, not entirely unfamiliar, but entirely unsuspected. Last he had checked, after all, his brother regrets nothing, proudly and arrogant to the obvious inevitable fault. (Ansel would likely say he, Gabe, would know, and he wouldn't be wrong to point it out. Just misguided...which again. Not unfamiliar.)

Arching an eyebrow, interest undoubtably piqued by the comment "an actual brother" he scoffs under his breath, and cannot restrain his idle comment of, "Please tell me, Mademoiselle Burns, that does not mean you have had the unfortunate occasion to meet the man who masquerades as Hans."

After all, Gabriel was well aware Hans had another proper first name he deigns not to use. Understandably, he thinks, not his biggest fan -- he loathes on most occasions to deign to use the name. Actually he usually loathes to mention the man at all.

Nodding once as if compelled himself at her explanation, he swallows a half chuckle and gestures to the back of the chair she sits on, indicating she should feel free to get comfortable. Ironically, he thinks, her making an appointment means he does have the time to answer her. It was a smart ploy. He likely would have walked out of where ever else she could have approached him. Eyebrows furrowing together as he scoots the metal chair across himself to sit down, he braces his knees on the aluminum legs.

"Well, you are offering a fair case as to your initial complaint of a head wound." He offers that first as a joke before realizing how insanely insensitive it was. His brother had permanently dented her head. Yet she knew of Colette? And did not consider a dent extremely lucky to have escaped his little brother with?

Gabriel swallows, hard, throat harsh and gaping for water. He hastens to add, "Oui, Mademoiselle, you are making sense. As much as is likely possible under the circumstances. I do admit...I am surprised, to hear he has confided in you. Unless of course you've left lycanthropy off your chart?"

"It does not," she nods, not unhappy about it being true anyways, they'd only heard of each other (because who doesn't hear about Irene Burns on the grapevine, let's be honest) and then decides to continue adding, "nor do I think I'll have the opportunity to do so in the near future, given that Ansel has driven him out of the country." It just felt important to say with the amount of distaste Gabriel had in his tone when speaking of Hans. Then again, of course he did. Distaste would be the very least of what she would feel if someone had turned her brother.  
  
And Ansel no longer being under Hans' thumb could only be a good thing, right? Or maybe she should say it couldn't be any worse (maybe she shouldn't even think that just in case he telepathically received the message and decided with a smug smirk 'challenge accepted'). Then again, Gabriel had already had an idea of who she was, or rather what she had come for, so maybe he knew more than she thought.  
  
Irene sat again now that he knew he wasn't going to walk out on her and tried to relax in the chair to best of her ability but she couldn't slouch even if she wanted to. She'd spent her early childhood summers with a ruler taped to her back, courtesy of her grandmother. Not that Irene didn't thank her for the good posture that was a relief to her chest as well but what sitting down with a ruler taped to your back when you were four years old was potentially traumatizing. Kids should be allowed to slouch.  
  
Irene smiled, accepting the joke in good nature but not finding it in herself to manage a laugh. Sometimes she found herself wishing it was brain injury (which is what nearly all her friends would have said if they knew about her recent activities).  
  
"Lycanthro- me? Oh no," she shook her head, "no, I'm not a wolf, I just run with them. Figuratively speaking, that is. I have a few friends who are werewolves, actually the majority of my friends are supernatural of some kind... I'm very non-judgmental. Well, to a point. I did have more than a fair share of harsh words that I spewed at him. Still, I was, am, as surprised as you are."

It makes him chuckle as she automatically speaks against being a lycathrope and taking a second to understand him. Makes sense, Gabriel thinks. He speaks too precisely (particularly in English) and doctoral language can be difficult to understand even to natives of the language. It was after all, a different language entirely, created for medicine alone (and of course for magic, so it's no wonder it's the language he speaks best).  
  
Still, Gabriel has to wonder to himself how many young curly blondes running around now know the deep most secrets of his family. The thought would terrify his padre, but only makes him want to smile. Too many people knowing their secrets? Well, dear father maybe it was about time.   
  
He swallows tightly, surprised still by the apparent innate protection in Irene's voice. The same person who his brother gave a concussion, he thinks. Maybe he ought not to be surprised. A red ribbon of scars wraps his left wrist beneath the coat, a few dull lines mar his chest but he doesn't think he ever loved his brother less for giving them to him. Ansel has a talent in the area of inspiring forgiveness, it seemed, or else Irene was just kinder than most.   
  
(Or maybe he should check her head, embellished story to score an appointment or not. Gabriel cannot deny he wants to, always on the lookout for it.)  
  
"I appreciate the visit, Irene." He says first, realizing he hasn't said it. "He hasn't exactly...kept in touch." Lifting a hand to his forehead, he rubs away and then leans back in the chair, looking at her and realizing she might not know why she was there, but it was a rare opportunity for him. One he thinks he should capitalize on, before whatever residual brother instinct he has goes away. He didn't even know Ansel was still in Paris, presuming he'd fled after they burned Notre Dame.  
  
"He left Hans?" His question was high in his throat in surprise and a brief smile crossed his lips. Years too late, but still, glad to know. Nodding once more, he turned as it occurs to him if he kept staring, she might think he mistook her for a lab specimen or petri dish. Yet was it any wonder he was wide-eyed in curiosity of her?   
  
"I ah- seem to be at a disadvantage here, Mademoiselle, seeing as he spoke to you much more recently than I." His discomfort was obvious, unused to being questioned on his brother quite as much as he was unused to being at such a disadvantage.  
  
Exhaling, he continues softly because he has to ask (he saw her chart), "You were recently in admittance to the English hospital, oui? Concussion and dent set apart...he has not hurt you again, has he?"  
  
This question was heavier in his throat, eyes expectant.

After a pause, Irene asked, “Really?,” one eyebrow raised and her chin tucking slightly into her neck as she watched Gabriel. She couldn’t imagine anyone appreciating this invasion of privacy coupled with some rants that bordered on hysterical even if they never crossed the line. Irene was a good ranter after all, she was born to rant, born to never be satisfied and always speak out about it. Irene demanded a lot more than the world seemed capable of giving her, but that didn’t mean she wasn’t going to keep pushing for her expectations to be met. The world would become a better place by her pushing.  
  
“I deduced,” she admitted, lifting her chin away from her neck again and nodding slowly, feeling a little sad for Gabriel’s sake. The last time he had seen his brother had been when Ansel had put him in the hospital (she believed). Not the best memory to carry with you. Similarly, how exactly do you face your brother after attacking him all those years ago when even before that they hadn’t been on the best of terms to begin with?  
  
Well, she answered herself, a good start is by showing up. It wasn’t that difficult.  
  
Irene nodded at the question, even if it wasn’t entirely accurate because Ansel and his pack (still so difficult to wrap her mind around that to be honest) hadn’t gone anywhere, they remained in the city. It was Hans and Rachelle that left. Irene wished Rachelle would have stayed…she was starting to like the woman, and the Brackners did too (half of them at least). Look at the fat good loyalty got her. That wasn’t fair.  
  
Irene then shook her head at the other question, “No. He actually took steps to prevent me further harm but I plunged myself into the fire, quite literally actually, got a little banged up…but, no he hasn’t. It’s a long story, especially the way I would tell it, and we wouldn’t have enough time for me to explain it properly.” Irene rubbed at her forehead, trying to make sense out of her whirlwind thoughts.  
  
“Okay, answering questions helps. Ask me more!”

That was the second time that Irene jumps to saying his brother had helped her, even though she hadn't this time acted offended for his assuming the worst. Curious. Gabriel isn't sure if he ought to sigh and shake his head or if he ought to smile, but he's sure he's grateful, so he'll go with it. It was nice to think that someone was out there looking after his brother's feelings, even if he suspects Ansel is unaware of that, and Irene herself might deny it.

(She would, actually. No question about it.)

Still, if he was meant to be guilty for assuming the worst of his brother, the fault was his to live with. Gabriel couldn't feel remorse for the assumption when much too often it had been accurate. Of course he wants to think better of Ansel, but maybe that would come when he had occasion for more than once every few months to think of his brother in the first place. Considering the occasions as of late had to do with horrific newspaper articles and Parisian icons aflame, was it his fault he was wary? He'd had to ask.

(No, he did not let out a huge gasp of relief either, but he did...smile and let out a tiny one, maybe, he did that).

Chuckling at the request for more questions, his arm slips back up his leg, hand back in his pocket, toying with a stray hem. His sewing kit was in his desk somewhere. He'd fix that later.

“Ah, well. In that case, may I ask how you met him initially? I gather it wasn't the occasion of your concussion, or your forgiveness which – is already extraordinary – would seem a tad bit more foolhardy.”

Gabriel could smirk at the insinuation, but decidedly just lets it stand.

Was it extraordinary? Apart from everything about her being extraordinary, Irene didn’t think so. Then again, every forgiveness should be extraordinary, otherwise it wasn’t really forgiveness. Right? I mean, it took a lot to forgive someone even for things as small as a paper cut. Forgiveness meant letting go of anger and resentment and blame and genuinely doing away with the culpability in your heart.  
  
Ooh, very nice use of the word there Irene, top marks.  
   
Gabriel was right though, Irene most definitely wouldn’t have forgiven Ansel if she had met him on the night he tried to snatch her away like a pile of pokemon trading cards, no matter how charming he thought himself to be with his stupid hair and his stupid eyes. Stupid.  
   
“I met him at a sports bar in September while I was out with a few friends, Alisha, Trent, Reid, Justin, we were all out. And Reid is a cocky loudmouth boasting that no one could beat him and Justin at pool so I told him, I said, ‘Reid I can drag your arse up and down this bar with one hand tied behind my back and beat your dynamic duo with a random stranger’. So! I walked up to Ansel and introduced myself and told him to come help me beat my friend’s arse at pool, voila.” Pretty smooth actually, of him, not her (though yes, of course she was). What an incredible coin-ki-dink. She happens to pick up her ‘stalker’ in a room full of people?  
  
“Is there any way you can like…put a mental wall up there, just in case?”

 "A mental wall?" Startled by the request as if it's the first time Gabriel has ever heard it (spoiler alert: it wasn't), his eyebrows flutter and cheeks stretch thin. Huh. Brows furrowing as he contemplates with a slow head tilt, sucking on his bottom lip, Gabriel shakes his head just as slowly.   
  
"Irene, to say I am not...rather well-versed in lycanthrophy's talents would be a lie indeed, but...neither can I claim mastery. Yet I confess I do not know of any particular talent which would enable him to ensure in your random pick-up game you chose him. Not without eye-contact."   
  
Well, he could think of one thing: if this 'Reid' person had excused himself for the washroom and met his brother then, or if his brother had erased meeting Irene in the first place -- but both of these things actually required natural talents in pharmakeia, nothing special to his brothers area.  
  
"I imagine the meeting may not have been random, to be sure," as the concussion lent itself to a scenario where his brother had been watching her (how unpleasant), "but of your own making, yet." He offers her a small smile. Though he's not entirely sure why he does. Was that meant to be a comfort? Was he offering an explanation of his brother's actions that soften them, lessen them? (Was he still doing that?)  
  
Exhaling, he concludes, "In any case...I do know of some herbs which might aid you in keeping unwanted intrusion out, but. They are not 100% successful. You have to become block from within to be wholly impervious. There's no spell I could weave. Even if there were, I am afraid I must inform you I would not cast it but for great circumstances. Do you have reason to believe you are still in danger of being coerced, Irene?"  
  
Gabe speaks calmly, though casually over the fact he will not cast. His finger still toys with the thread in his pocket.

"Well I couldn't be sure. Hans can do it," she frowned, rubbing the back of her neck as she recalled the look on Dillon's face as he told her what he had been coerced to do after being bound and gagged by Hans, and smacked around by Zach. She did not feel even the tiniest bit sad over Zach's death actually, but she hadn't actually paid it any attention until right now; that's how little she cared. Still, that wouldn't have happened if Ansel himself hadn't- oh, what was she doing here? This can't be counted as a betrayal of her boyfriend, right? She wasn't being insensitive, right? She was just doing what came natural to her, that wasn't bad, right? Right?!

"So can Rachelle, one of his 'sisters', well I guess now it's estranged 'sister'," something she and Gabe had in common. Ouch. Could he tell that had been her train of thought? Rachelle had already told her she was a loud thinker. At least she didn't say it aloud.  
  
For some reason it pleased Irene to be assured (even if it wasn't wholeheartedly) that the meeting was of her own making. Maybe she had even messed up his plans to approach her! Muahaha, success!  
  
Except not, because that only made his job all the easier. Fine, so the score stood at 1-1 at that time. Then he snatched her, fine 1-2. But she got away! 2-2. The voicemail made it 3-2, but the violation of her personal space at the store evened it up because he got the location of Rachelle and she didn't get that dress. 3-3. Hmm, she'll come back to that later.  
  
Irene sighed and then waved her hand away and shook her head, "No, I guess not. It's fine, I was just speaking without thinking, again. I'm sure you have enough real patients to prioritize. I'm good. I guess I'm just really anxious about being duped again. Before I met him, I considered myself to be an excellent judge of character. You can tell a lot by a person's shoes, I'll have you know. I never in a million years would have thought the person I met, with such fabulous shoes and sense of style and wit and a sense of humor that was like a lick or two smarter than mine, who sent out such good vibes could have duped me like that.  
  
Which still doesn't explain why I'm here, because as you've said, I'm the one out of the two of us who has spoken to him recently." Why, oh why, was she paying him this much attention? What did she hope to accomplish her? Oh brain, speak to her.  
  
"I'll repay you for your lost time by the way, don't worry about that, I'll even add an annoyance convenience fee."

Estranged sister...aha. Ha. Ha. Gabriel almost laughs aloud, but manages to keep it in just barely. He truly wishes he could tell her he doesn’t know who Rachelle even is, but that’s a lie. He knew every member of the pack’s name -- or apparantly, he had. It was hard to avoid that when their names pop up in side reports over the years before they vanish and/or are cleared.   
  
(He thinks of a locked file in his desk, a password-protected vault of photos on his computer.  Then he stops thinking about it equally quickly.)  
  
Eyebrow arching still higher, he says quietly, and he hopes somewhat reassuringly, “Oui, alas my brother is uniquely charming, Irene...and yes, I believe he does have ‘fabulous shoes.’”  
  
Gabriel quotes that with a wink to her, not sure how else he could put that she was hardly the first to be duped, and it honestly...wasn’t a fault of hers. It was his brother’s fault for continously duping the kind-hearted, for whatever soul-searching reason it was he did so. Sigh. Ansel had always looked for reconciliation in the worst of the wrong places. It long ago had become impossible for him to literally pull him out whatever his good intentions. That had only ever led to disaster.

  
His fingers flick at the scratches on his arms and he tucks the wrist deeper into his pocket to prevent continuing to irritate the skin.  
  
“I am relieved, however, to hear you are not in further danger.” Though he isn’t sure how much of that believes. She seems very agitated, very on edge of even approaching him, like she seemed to think she was breaking some holy writ to seek him.   
  
Ah, probably a boyfriend.  
  
Gabriel takes a breath.   
  
“And oh, please dahling, it’s no annoyance. As I said before, I do appreciate the uh, intrusion. I do have another question though now. If you know Rachelle, but not Hans...”  
  
His brows furrow, wondering how he can ask. As if he was the one who walked out the door this morning knowing they would drop in on someone elses life!  
  
(But hey, he’s never claimed he and his brother didn’t have some things in common).  
  
“...do you know Stefanie? Or uh, Daniella, or D’Grey, I have heard he was spending time around them...”

Uniquely charming, well, maybe she wouldn't go that far but contesting it would be stupid because there was definitely an extra oomph. Only extra oomph could have fooled her. And a great pair of Bruno Magli shoes. She'd already admitted it before so it didn't hurt her to admit that he had great taste.  
  
For now, she thinks to herself after offering a thankful smile. Didn't hurt to hear an almost stranger gladdened that she was safe. It was rare to hear, how sad was that? Either way, she had no idea if she was going to be safe especially given that she was so determined to be around Highly Dangerous Supernaturals. HiDaSu's  
  
"Yes, all three," she nodded, unsurprised that he mentioned the last two as according to Ansel they all went to the same school here in Paris, and at the risk of inflating Olivier's ego all the way from over here who didn't know about D'Grey in Paris? The first mention, that took her more by surprise but the more she thought about it, it made perfect sense.  
  
"Let me guess," she chuckled, licking her lips and smirked briefly, "I'm not the first beautiful blonde bombshell to come ask about your brother."

"Ah," he smiles with the look she has mirrored back at her, of the cat catching the canary (he thinks that's the English saying). Exhaling out, he admits, "I would not lie to you and say you were, no. You're the second."  
  
Well, the second since the obvious, and Stefanie had been a tad bit less polite about the whole thing (he chuckles, thinking that was an understatement, but then -- Irene didn't seem to be waving crime scene photos in his face, so most things would be understatements. Come to think of it, he hasn't seen Stefanie in a few weeks either. Or, er, maybe more than that.   
  
(Laverne was right; he does need to get out of the lab more often. Well, for more often than his "bimbos" as she'd put it -- and aha, nope, that wasn't the word she'd used, he just was being proper).   
  
Biting down on his lip again, tongue flicking the top of his mouth he adds, "But if you know them..." His lips press together tightly. It might not make sense, considering she's been oddly protective of his brother's feelings thus far (and he was still glad of that), but he couldn't help but feel D'Grey's would hardly have his brother's best interests to heart either.   
  
"...I imagine then, my brother has no interest in retiring from meddling in the pharmakein politics as it regards to Paris. Wonderful." It had been a vain hope in the first place, he supposed. One Gabriel hadn't even realized he harbored. Sighing with his bemused understatement, he shakes his head at her and just posits, "I have to mention then, estranged or not...I am grateful to know you seem to care if he's harmed. Those people," his tongue sticks to his lip and he shakes his head, "Stef excepted, those people have never been good to my brother."

Irene hadn't even stopped to think about Stefanie having sought out Gabriel as well. It made sense, especially as Stefanie hadn't had the courtesy of an explanation (then again Irene wasn't sure Stefanie had thought to actually -ask-), she had researched instead. Irene had actually taken Ansel's advice and avoided looking up the crime scene photos. There was enough carnage in her memory bank for a good lifetime, she could do without anymore. Besides, asking Stefanie about Ansel right now? Not a conversation she wanted to get into.  
  
Gabe said second, but what he really meant was third. Like the saying went: one was an incident, two a coincidence, and three was a pattern. Oh Ansel, break the cycle, go hound a nice redhead or brunette for a change.  
  
Cycle. Hound. Ha ha ha- no, it wasn't that funny but Tony's humor was rubbing off on her. Oh how she missed her other half.  
  
"He didn't say so in so many words but he also didn't not say...," no double negatives weren't her thing so she nods, "yeah, he's meddling. Seems he's rooting for one of his friends, I don't know. *I'm* not meddling, believe it or not, this is me not meddling, if you can believe that."  
  
Technically speaking Stefanie wasn't always good to Ansel, but neither was Ansel to her and that was definitely a situation she wasn't getting in, but yes, her 'sometimes' beat the D'Grey's 'never'. Maybe that's why she was here. Maybe Irene had taken accidentally taken it upon herself to be (hashtag) Team Ansel because no one else was. Irene didn't like the sound of that. The only Team she would be in was (hashtag) Team Ladies. Though also (hashtag) Team Orgasms.  
  
"He wants the cartel gone, understandably," Irene nodded, "in a weird way I'm...no, rooting for him aren't the right words but...crossing my fingers and hoping he doesn't fail miserably, yeah, that works. At the same time wow power corrupts and he's got more of it now, I'll keep hush-hush about a certain potion because I am in enough trouble with myself as it is but," Irene raised a finger, opening her mouth briefly as if she was coming to a sudden conclusion. Loading, loading, loading.

Ironic, Gabriel thinks as she tangled herself up in double negatives she couldn’t even follow it herself. Only to use another ten seconds later, perfectly encapsulating his own feelings. He didn’t root, but yes, he doesn’t want him to fail. To say anything more would be...too enthusiastic.

Gabriel pushes his lips together as he listens, but can’t help his immediate agreement.

“Ah, understandably.” His nod is brisk. She posits that Paris might “understand” the D’Grey cartel being out of power. Aha. He wishes that doesn’t want to make him laugh, but there was a source of power in France that he supposes the English wouldn’t be as quick to understand. Subjagated first by a King, then by Napolean (of whose Code is still used in Law, just, modified), and then by Nazi conquest, there had always been a sense of loyalty to the State of France. Paris was the city of love, true, but it was also the city of acceptance before vengeance. He couldn’t disagree with that premise either.

“And brave of you to say.”

It was hard to liberate people who were unaware of being conquered.  
  
"I don't want him to mess up this second...third....fourth?," she waved it away after a look of confusion, "chance, which is what it has the potential of being! If he took it as such. And I'm not and have never pretended to be a therapist -I occasionally have portrayed a nurse- and I wouldn't want to get near his psyche with a thirty nine and a half foot pole but Ansel's got the whole own-worst-enemy and self-destruction thing down paaat and I would rather that not happen. But it probably will, somewhat, because in the game of thrones you either win or die! There's no middle ground!"  
  
So her and Al might have marathon-ed a few episodes of the show after their night out because drunk was the only way to watch Game of Thrones by the time the show got to it's fourth season.

And yes, Gabriel was focusing on the apparent mission his brother was undertaking, for the small moment of joyful ignorance it gave him. Well, that and the side image she decides to flash him with of her in a nurse’s outfit. Oh...dear, Irene, well. He could see why his brother was fond (?) of her.

Gabriel’s laugh turns somber in an instant. Yes, he thinks. Yes, his brother was certainly his own worst enemy. And as Irene continues on and on, he finds himself thinking he wasn’t certain if she was serious, if he should laugh or cry, be angry or glad, and that she might have a head injury after all, but she might also be one of the sanest people he’s ever met (for a sixteen year old). Ah. So, right at home with discussing his brother then. Joyous, he’d missed this feeling.

(Gabriel never has been good at sarcasm).

  
"I'm going to be honest, Gabe, he didn't paint you in a very positive light but I understand, as much as a person on the outside listening from a biased narrator can understand. I suppose I wanted to see for myself what you were like and see if there was truth to his, brief I won't lie, descriptions, and also you both say dahling. I don't think you understand how -rude- that is. But that's besides the point, the point...the point..."

Though he inclined his head at her half-apologetic comment his brother had not complimented his own role (he’d have been concerned if Ansel had), he just goes wide-eyed and then holds his hand up.

  
Irene frowned again, bringing her hands back down to her lap as she tried to backtrack down her own train of thought in silence.  
  
"The point is I know to you I must seem like blonde #3 but the truth is I relate more to your brother than Colette or Stef. And maybe I'm diving deeper into Ansel's whole story because I feel more comfortable than diving into my own but like I said I'm not a therapist and I never learned how to dive. And as much as I love myself  it's healthy to do so you know, I don't like to make other people's problems about me. I don't care if our situations were 95% similar, I still would try not to compare because everyone's experience is different, you know? Right, that's what I'm saying. Except I've just admitted I'm here for him not me which means I've lost my shield, then again I wouldn't be here if it wasn't.   
  
But at the same time I'm also here for me, because I just figured out part 1 of why I'm here, I'm here because I needed to find someone who wasn't anti-Ansel that wasn't in his pack and who wasn't biased by having slept with him and/or only not Anti-Ansel half of the time.   
  
I had hoped, I had a feeling that you still cared for him instead of hated him even after what he did. Isn't there a French term for it? I think it was a song or an album...means madness of many? It seems a lot more appealing than being crazy all by my lonesome because that's exactly what I'm gonna be called the moment I tell my friends because eventually I'll tell them, not everything of course, I'm not going to disrespect his privacy and I've already promised I wouldn't tell anyone, but you already know so I'm not breaking it, not really."  
  
Irene breathed, her voice getting a little quieter, "I can summarize my key points if I went too fast."

Fingers grace his lips. It seems hard work to listen to her, but work he admits was well worth the effort if she was saying...what she seems to be saying. Brows furrowing, he lets silence fall for a long while figuring out precisely what he did take from that, after using his fingers to wave off her offer for a summary and recap. (Though he smirks, imagining she did often get taken up on that.)

“Folie à deux,” he says first, smirk unmoved as he relays, “Madness of two, although you have...certainly come to the right office if you suggest we share that. The vernacular evolved from the mental affliction which -- ah, in English it would be, ‘shared psychosis’?”

"Folie a deux," she repeats it aloud so she could remember it more easily later on, hopefully, and then nods, smiling for a moment. Shared psychosis sounded trippy. Now she wasn't entirely sure if that's what she meant to suggest but it was similar enough that she didn't withdraw it.

Unsure why he felt so compelled to point this out to her, he takes his fingers back off his lips and folds hands in his lap, shifting position against the floor. Comfort was too much to hope for, inevitably, but he never does seem to cease to try. It’s his own disease.

Finally, with what seems to be too light a sigh for all his weighty thoughts, he flicks his gaze back to hers and says simply, “I do not desire for him to was the chance either, Irene. If he has truly split from that... madman, then I believe as you do all hope might not be lost for Ansel. Yet I also learned a long time ago, and you seem aware of the occasion on which I did, that I cannot make him do anything. He is as ah, stubborn as I am.”

That makes his lips twitch up.

To hear the brothers shared the stubbornness trait didn't make her feel any better, she realized. If a moment arose in which she needed to convince Gabriel of something, or to do something, he would be as stubborn as Ansel? Irene would have more success talking to a wall. Thankfully, Gabe seemed pliant enough today, at least he hadn't kicked her out and was listening. That was a success in her book!

“Considering I have not recieved so much as a post card for the holidays, I believe I must respect my brother’s wishes. Ansel sought you out, dah--ah. My apologies for the rudeness, it is...an old habit.”

One he had not known previously he shared with his little brother. Or more accurately, that his brother still had verbal ticks like himself. Was she saying it was rude to act familiar, or that it was rude to remind her of his brother? Well...both, he believes. His brows unfurrow with a little head shake.

Irene's Guide To A More Happy and Successful Living was still a work in progress but she hoped to have it on the shelves for the next holiday season.

"No, not rude as in disrespectful, sorry," she shook her head with a sheepish grin as he apologized, "rude as in...unfair. The accent is- anyways!"

“The point does however stand: Ansel sought you out, Irene, not I. I imagine the friend of which he spoke is Darrell Avenier. We went to school together.” Ah, well, actually Darrell had captained the team after he left, and always was a bit of a natural leader. An inclination his brother had never shared, sadly enough.

Irene cleared her throat and then moved on to what he seemed to be telling her which was that she'd have a 'better chance' at finding a compadre in Darrell. Except she had no idea whether Darrell knew the whole story, Ansel hadn't said. Sigh.

“And considering Ansel,” it was strange to say his name aloud, “seems to know his friend is running, though he has not yet announced, they must be in contact. So I can at least offer you the fact he is clearly not alone, and thus neither are you in your sympathies.”

He clears his throat and sits up straighter, discomfort in the chair getting to him enough that he knows he’ll soon stand.

“Although,” he laughs under his breath, “If his sympathies must be unbiased on the nature of sharing a bed with my brother, I confess I am not entirely sure Darrell qualifies.”  He smirks to himself, wondering how he was as well. As if he hadn’t recently sent a sizable contribution to the campaign himself.

Then she found herself giggling in surprised delight at Gabe's tease of  his brother and Darrell's relationship. Yup, she ships it now. Her giggle died, as laughter often does eventually, before she chewed on her bottom lip thoughtfully.

"So you won't reach out to him? At all?"

Ahh, the accent. Well, he still doesn’t see how being unfairly attractive could be considered “rude” but maybe this was one of those English colloquial idioms that won’t quite translate.

Gabriel looks up at that, wishing she might go back to simply giggling, or ...at least something similar. And that question wasn’t rude? His accent was, but the idea of a near-stranger telling him to get in touch with, that wasn’t? No, reach out to, like his brother was in need of yet another support group. Which of course, he probably was. But don’t let the facts confuse you, Gabriel.  
  
Scratching at his cheeks as if to force himself not to snap, his thumb sticks in the corner of his eye and then he just shakes his  
head. Irene was sixteen, mon dieu. She was boisterous (he could tell that already), loud, impertinent -- and all other like-minded similies, so of course, he’s well aware she was “going places in this world.” She was already a force to be reckoned with. And in spite of the question, he thinks he likes her a lot more than he probably should.  
  
“I have no way of doing so that does not require my treating a human being like an envelope.” He exhales, hand dropping over the side of the chair before quipping (and he wasn’t serious, he wasn’t--), “Unless you’re telling me you happen to have his new mobile number?”  
  
Aha. Sure his brother was hiding from the authorities or rather -- invisible to him -- but maybe he wasn’t so wrong to assume that his brother would give that number to the sixteen year old, attractive blonde in front of him.  
  
But in any case, what on Earth was he supposed to say to him? Just invite him out to coffee? Hey, bro, sorry Papa pretends you don’t exist and I’ve silently just let him do that for years now? That would go well.  
  
“It would be a lie to say I have no interest in talking with him, Irene. Trouble is it is equally a lie to say we don’t have...similar, anger management issues.”  
  
And whatever his lingering affection for his little brother, Gabriel knew he was still pissed for -- half a dozen different reasons.  
  
Putting him in the hospital and leaving without saying goodbye for a start.  
  
Irene reached inside her purse to grab her mobile and then scrolled through her contacts list and then held it out to show it to him. His current contact picture was an evil red smiley with devils horns and a forked tail; actually it was more cute than anything else but she found it appropriate.  
  
"You're  brothers, and isn't it time you buried the hatchet? Anger issues and stubbornness aside," she inclined her head, wondering briefly if that was why he'd made sure to be so aloof during their conversation (after all, he was French, she had expected more pomposity), "and despite the fact that he's more in the wrong, that's no reason why you shouldn't get in touch. I mean, you're older, more mature," -sexier, cough cough-, "you're the big brother." Wasn't that enough explanation? Sigh, Olivier would understand.  
  
"Here," she looked further in her purse, digging through all the things she had in there before finally finding her multi-colored sticky notes. Grabbing her blue gel pen, she started jotting down Ansel's number.  
  
"Just have it! Just take it!" She quickly added, looking up, before he tried to tell her that it wouldn't be necessary or not to bother.  
  
"You don't have to call him, there's about 300 people in my contact list and I've only used guaranteed like...75 of the numbers, but it never hurts to have them! I mean, you never know when you're gonna need to plan a zip-lining adventure but if you ever do, thank goodness you have Paula's number, that one extreme sports chick you met at a party for your distant cousin's engagement party. Similarly!," she raised a finger before writing down the rest of the number and looking down again, "you might find your    self in need or in want to get in touch with your not-so-friendly neighborhood alpha wolf brother."  
  
Irene tore off the sticky note, stood, and then placed it on his desk, on top of what looked like the calendar or planner. Pen and paper kind of guy. Old school, she liked it. Then she swiped the top edge  
Amaris Cell (19:47:52):    with two fingers to made sure it stuck.  
  
"And I'm afraid the number I gave your secretary is fake, sorry, so here's mine," she writes down her number quickly, adding a little smiley to her name at the end, "because you never know when you're going to want to get in touch with an obnoxious blonde heiress fashionista. Well, not heiress, dad's gonna shaft me the moment I turn 18 I expect, but we'll see who's laughing at the end. Spoilers: it'll be me."  
  
She stuck the sticky note on his desk too and then after turning back to him, raised the other sticky notes in front of her face and smiled a little sheepishly, and it was mostly genuinely too!"  
  
"You're not about to ask me to submit to a brain scan?"  
  
Gabriel would have liked to say the bright red smiley devil didn’t make him laugh (his brother’s feelings, and what not) but then hey, if his brother was anything like he used to be, he’d appreciate the joke. It made the center of his chest compress to think he wasn’t sure anymore what his brother even looked like. The file, the locked desk...not one of them had photographs. In fact most people would likely not recognize the patterns between them, the little tricks that made the articles sure to be about Ansel. The kind of things only a brother would notice.  
  
Which turns out to be Irene’s incredibly simple way to get him to swallow, nod and accept her little sticky notes. Ah--er, well, sure she could just put them there and he’ll move them into place when she left, no need to concern her with his system. Smile turning a little soft as he echoes her, he makes sure to add, “You are not obnoxious, Irene. You do however, have fabulous shoes.”  
  
He winks, then pockets his pen again, setting her chart down on the desk beside her sticky notes. When she went to hand the rest of them over, he takes them, nodding with the softer smile still in place. It was likely as sheepish as her look.  
  
“I might be the older brother, Mademoiselle, but with age does not necessarily come wisdom -- you yourself is a testament to that, it seems.” Aha! Of course she didn’t give her real name to his desk secretary. That would bug Laverne to no end, oh, that was too good.  
      
Pushing the drawer shut with his sticky notes locked back inside, he stalls, just suddenly hearing what she said. He blinks.  
  
“Alpha?” So he did more than leave Hans. Gabe finds a small smile cross his lips, even as he finds himself gripped with a new worry; his brother had never been the best suited to lead. But maybe that’s changed too. It was about time.  
  
Turning to take her hand to thank her again, he finds his old habits kicking in again, lifting her palm to kiss the top of it like he was back at one of his father’s fundraisers.  
  
“I probably should,” Gabriel admits with a tiny shrug, “but then I’d have to order one for myself. One thing though, Irene. Your magic. Would you consider letting me do such a scan for the simple purpose of cataloging? I’m searching for differences in neural pathways between those with our genes and without.”  
  
"Oh, merci!" She thanked him with a beam, looking down quickly at her shoes to remember which ones she wore. Oh yes, her Yves Saint Laurent Chain ankle boots. So great taste was also genetic, or maybe just learned? Either way, definitely good eye.  
  
Irene nods, agreeing with that easily enough. She had met plenty of older adults that had absolutely no idea about everything and sometimes she felt as if her best friend Nadia held the answers to the universe.  
  
Still, that was no excuse to not try. If anything, that was precisely why he should try! And she did mean try because she wasn't too sure how Ansel would react but it probably wouldn't be very positively.  
  
Huh, he probably wouldn't be too pleased with her either. Well, good. That made her feel much more comfortable, actually. Besides, she'd already told him, he knows how she is, his own damn fault. Harrumph.  
  
Smiling still as Gabe kisses her hand, wow his cheekbones were amazing, Irene nods at his request.  
  
"Yes, of course, it's the least I can do really."  
  
Startled by her acceptance (half suspecting it has more to do with checking in on him to see if he'd actually done it than anything else), Gabriel decides he's not going to care. Whatever had made her say yes he's appreciative for, and that's it. Although he does find himself wondering if it was the same thing which made him say yes in the first place and accept the sticky note.  
  
"Oui? Ah, tres bien, ma cherie."  
  
Releasing her hand, he goes to pick her chart up again, pen out, already beginning to set it up.  
  
Once he's written the test order out, he smiles back at her and hands her the slip.  
  
"For the nurses. The lab is on the third floor, and as I...believe they are full booked for today, I wrote tomorrow morning. Does eleven sound all right, Mademoiselle Burns?"  
  
Gabriel, whatever their conversation, was eager and all business again about this in an instant.  
  
Startled by her acceptance (half suspecting it has more to do with checking in on him to see if he'd actually done it than anything else), Gabriel decides he's not going to care. Whatever had made her say yes he's appreciative for, and that's it. Although he does find himself wondering if it was the same thing which made him say yes in the first place and accept the sticky note.  
  
"Oui? Ah, tres bien, ma cherie."  
  
Releasing her hand, he goes to pick her chart up again, pen out, already beginning to set it up. Once he's written the test order out, he smiles back at her and hands her the slip.  
  
"For the nurses. The lab is on the third floor, and as I...believe they are full booked for today, I wrote tomorrow morning. Does eleven sound all right, Mademoiselle Burns?"  
  
Gabriel, whatever their conversation, was eager and all business again about this in an instant.  
  
Grabbing the piece of paper as he offers it, she reads it with brows furrowed and then is grateful that there also seems to be an English translation at the bottom, phew. All for the best because otherwise Irene might have gotten herself into a lobotomy by mistake. Did people still perform lobotomies? Dreadful.  
  
Tomorrow morning, 11am, she considered. Well the earliest transit time from London to Paris was 9am, that should give her enough time to get back here. She should think about getting a place in the city too at this rate from how often she visits. Irene nods again with a smile.  
  
"Sounds good, I shall be here and thank you again. Or rather, thank you to begin with because I don't think I thanked you before. Now it's thank you again. Mostly for not running and calling security, but also for not looking at me like I'm crazy to be doing this. Also also for understanding. Honestly, my wholehearted thanks, Gabe."  
  
Her lips flicked up a little before adding, "Or given that as I am now technically your patient is it 'doctor' again?" Lucky was the woman who could manage this doctor to make a house call, heyyyyy.  
  
Oh sue her, she'd been wanting to make the house call joke since she had come in, so she would at least make it to herself.  
  
Chuckling, he shakes his head and shrugs a shoulder, offering her a side smirk as he relays, “Doctor Gabe is just fine.”  
  
He was mostly kidding. Mostly. Odd, as Gabriel doesn’t remember joking this much with a patient or on-the-clock in...well, weeks. Unless you count flirting with seventy year old witches. He never could take ‘whippersnapper’ seriously, and hey, their good morale went a long way to helping their health.  
  
Slipping his hand back out of his pocket to open the door for her, he nods to accept her thanks. Really, he knows he should be the one thanking her.

 


	13. What is Wrong with You?!

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> (Alphabetically or by the gravity of capital offense?)

"Olivier what are you --" Startled, it half bursts from Daniella's corseted chest.

"What?" The arms spread at his side as he shrugs with a knowing look on a bemused face, "Am I not allowed to come visit my girlfriend on her lunch hour?"

Casual visit my sweet ass, she can't help but think. Daniella stands immediately, watching that swagger and trying not to let it distract her. The coworker's round eyes and notoriously sticky nose makes it easier than usual. Barely restraining from adding 'shut up Jacqueline' to her statement that she should mind her own business, she moves to pick up all her files in one, exaggerated fell swoop.

Offering the curious secretary a wiggle of his hand, he's stalled at Daniella's desk as if hit by a forcefield. He floats a hand over it and he watches those files swipe into her waiting, neat little metal cabinet. Almost as if she doesn't want him to see what she's working on. Curious.

"Tony's right," she says as she walks to the file drawer, using the excuse to move and turn her back on Olivier, "you are addicted to that word."

She hears him make a disgruntled little bitter chuckle and stills, thumb fiddling at the edge of the manilla folder. Half twisting her neck, enough that a black curl hauls its' ass over her shoulder to float towards D'Grey like he's a magnet, she offers while opening the folder, "Sorry." It's small.

"Sorry? For what?" He cocks an eyebrow at her back, lifting his gaze naturally from that mini skirt to meet her eyes when she whips all around. There's a look that says very clearly she wasn't amused with his little ignorant act. He has to agree with her: there was nothing little about him.

"Oh, for mentioning my incarcerated brother?"

After glancing dark lids shadowed in her favorite "amethyst" shade at the clearly asking to be in trouble with their boss coworker, Daniella bites her lip and looks back to Olivier. Her boyfriend. Right. Her hand of black, sharp nails push the drawer with a definitive click. Her words were rote.

"Of course you can come visit your girlfriend on her lunch hour. Perhaps you'd prefer we go to the roof, where we can picnic in real style."

"And talk in private," D'Grey posits pleasant, though his smirk is sardonic in that naughty way. She gives him another of her patented Daniella Queen of Faces looks, and he thinks he was never going to stop trying to see them all.

The roof was covered in a good half inch of snow and chimney residue, ash coating the grimy cement and chipped marble. Momentarily stymied by the wildness captured and reflecting the woman he was with, he chuckles as under her faux-fur coat as dark as her hair, she reveals a bottle of wine. It's done in such a flourish her lips break open in her teasing smirk. Chapped from the wind, their as red as the wine she pours them both.

"What are you really doing here, Monsieur D'Grey?" Daniella addresses him formally as if in a private joke, watching him wipe her glass clean with a handkerchief like it was fine glassware.

"Oh, cara I believe I'm going to be asking the questions here first."

Daniella's steady stream into her glass interrupts itself, but only for a moment. He never does seem to catch her for longer than that.

"Well, that's debatable." She offers. He must look questioning, for she elaborates with ease, "You going first. You did just answer my first question, amore."

They share a sip of wine after a clink of the glasses she'd conjured as if toasting to their mutual wit. Banter was an art form too rarely expressed in conversation in both their view and yet it makes up almost all of their communication. The rest was done with lips and tongue and sound all right, but not words recognizable in Websters. A significant amount of searching fingers playing at spelling the words in sweat as if finger paint was involved. Add the thousand and one faces, a silver knife and a dozen secrets behind every door and you've got their relationship. On a constant simmer, all you have to do is add a little blood to get Daniella Faye and Olivier D'Grey to boil.

"Why haven't you been to the prison?" Olivier asks, ignoring her pointed jab for its' irrelevancy. Daniella tilts her glass back further without comment, eyes round. "You baked cookies, and yet -"

"I wanted to go that night," Daniella says. She cuts him off and swirls her drink in her glass. There's anger in her dark eyes as she continues,ever poised and mild. "You left me on the couch."

"You passed out." D'Grey says. He was certain of this. He was guilty of this.

"You could have woken me up," Daniella points at him with her glass. There's a circle of snow swept up by the wind itching to drown in her wine, and yet somehow she avoids each flake with grace.

"Daniella."

"You could have and you didn't, because you didn't want me there."

"You passed out." D'Grey repeated, setting the wine glass down. How did she not understand this? The image was sealed in his brain. Finding her wrapped in her peacock robe on the parlor couch, bare feet ice to the touch when they prod his side as he picks her up. Shivering and pale, the cuts visible on her chest and forearms all he could see. She'd just said she was going to change. He glances to her arm, fruitlessly because of her big coat, yet he's sure he's right. He's sure the marks are still there.

"I was worried."

"Mon dieu, D'Grey." Her hand slices through the chilled air, cutting his concerns to ribbons. Just like the ones on her wrist, if she'd keep her hand still. His eyes search for evidence of his transgressions on the flash of bare skin, but all he can see is her annoyance.

"I understand packing me back into bed, and the warm bath and vitamins, I understand why it was alarming, but it was four in the morning. I was exhausted. It was a long day! And then sleep was interrupted and someone I really care about hoisted out the door at gun point so yes, I was a little bit tired."

D'Grey scoffs.

"But you," she stepped forward, boot crunching in the snow until her sharp heel strikes marble. "You just tucked me away like a sick child and then told me absolutely, nothing."

His face tightens.

"You were sick."

"Not a word. Not how he was, not what you were planning on doing, nothing at all. One night, fine, but it's been three weeks and you still haven't--"

"I repeat, you were sick."

"I've been sick since the day I was born hun, doesn't mean good food and a bubble bath is going to fix it." There's a lyrical tune to Daniella's quip. Her lips smack. If he was going to ignore her point, so was she. Funny, he was thinking the same thing.

"You were sick because I--" D'Grey falters. Then he sours, tongue gluing to the roof of the bitter mouth as if he swallowed a lemon. Actually, no: Olivier used to suck on Nonna's fresh lemons from the tree in her backyard as a child, and he never faltered over his lusts in his life. What would his father have thought if another son had denied what he gave so much to create?

"You were sick because in my anger, in my frustration at my brother for having the audacity to tell me to be a better person, I dug into your veins, cut into your chest, drank your blood until we were fucking in it and neither one of us could breathe."

There. He finished the sentence. No hesitance there. Appeased with the words to console his father's ghost, D'Grey smirks. He smirks until he sees Daniella's own smirk.

"And it was a magnificent way to spend the evening." She quips again, toasting the air with her glass and shrugging to hide the bare shiver. Downing the rest of her wine in one, long swallow, D'Grey is reminded eerily of how he had drank from her. Let no one say they were not kindred spirits.

"Yes, you took a little more than was kosher," she allows as Olivier rubs at his face, at a loss for how to respond to that. A trouble she had not had with his own sensationalist statement, he noticed. Daniella smiles as she puts the glass down. But there was still anger in her eyes. He'd think "good", if he wasn't sure she wasn't mad for the right reasons. She never was. Maybe that was why he liked her so much.

"But hun," she winks, nails tapping the cheap glass marred by her lipstick, "I'm not Jewish."

"What's wrong with you?"

D'Grey's question cuts. Huff in her throat, her bemusement and all pretense drops in a bright flash. Really? Olivier D'Grey was asking that? Talk about audacity. Although sure, everyone knew what was wrong with him.

"I'm a fuh-reak." Daniella smacks her scarlet lips, just like Tony did when he called her it. Eyes narrow and jaw tight, her tone was dead-pan. "Remember? Born that way."

D'Grey straightens his neck, eyes wide in disbelief. He wasn't sure if he wants to kiss her drop her off the building for that, but something in his chest softens in strange understanding.

"And you're dodging my point." Mirth gone as she toys with her dry, stained bottom lip, she continues, "You used the fact that I fell asleep-"

"Passed out-"

"-As a reason to shut me away from whatever capo thing you were doing to get Tony out. You didn't want me involved, you still don't, so, sorry mon cheri, I thought I was respecting your wishes staying out of the precinct. I wouldn't want to accidentally see, say, you killing a detective and make it so you have to kill me too to bring Tony home."

D'Grey stared. Stunned, he moves to finish his drink, just to have something to make him close his mouth. He might be furious and the snow whipping in his hair might be getting to him, chilling him from the inside out, but he was still Olivier D'Grey. He wasn't going to dribble down all over his front with wine gaping at this girl like a prepubescent guppy. What, was he Nemo now? The chill seems to ache in his teeth as they set, reverberates through his bones. Daniella hadn't moved.

She looks so fierce like that curling hair tumbling in the wind, all in black with the diamonds he gave her in her ears, marks he gave her on her throat, boots staunch in the whirling snow and ash with the Parisian city they both call their own outlining her defiance in the marble, iconic sky. He wishes he could take a photo. From this angle, she seems taller than Lady Eiffel.

But then he was so angry he'd probably only break the lens if he did hold a camera. Madonna knew it wouldn't be in focus. Daniella wasn't much for open clarity.

"Do you think Tony should be in jail?," is what he asks. Daniella's eyes go narrow as her hands go up.

"Are you--how can you ask me that?"

"He's guilty." Olivier snaps, his leather crunching in the snow. That fact seems to smack her cheeks red; it couldn't be the wind when it seems to be avoiding her or setting wind in her sails. Smarter than him, this weather. He just steps closer to her as she fumes.

"I know." She says, chin lifting, unafraid. "He ripped them apart with his bare hands and drank them dry. I also know the two men were thugs of that scfamie Roswell and his putana, who had Harper tortured. Who had Eliza tortured. Who had Nadia kidnapped, brutalized and stole her memories. Who whipped and raped and slaughtered who knows how many innocent teens for the sake of their power trip and insane Medieval dogma. I was in one of their heads for fucks' sake, you think I don't know what you all did?"

"No, I know you know." D'Grey's chin comes up too, but his voice is steady and low. There's a revolving Adam's apple popping at her. "And nowhere in there did you answer my question. And if you don't think, he should be, then why haven't you gone to see Tony in jail?"

Daniella blinks, angrily. Does he really think it's because she thinks he should be there? It was...exactly the opposite, she thinks, and turns to pick the wine bottle up again. There's a twitch in her jaw near the dimple by her nose. He usually finds that cute. Fingers tugging the cork back out of the bottle, she doesn't look away as she snaps.

"Tony did the best he could in a terrible situation. And, I saw him in Hogsmeade, I got him out of there and cleaned the blood off his shirt. He didn't look like a monster to me, anymore than you do right now. He looked like a terrified little boy caught with chocolate syrup all over his mouth. Or I suppose," she takes a shot of the wine right from her bottle, gasps and finishes, "cherry syrup, whatever. No, Olivier. I don't think he should be in jail, and!," she jabs the cork back into the bottle, jams it with all her might. Sparks crackle around the green Vino in her clawed palm, indicating she had a little help.

"I don't think you should be in jail either. That's what you're really asking, isn't it?"

Wind that so recently had howled to carry their whispers to shouts and drown out all city noise, deafen them to each other suddenly drops. Disappears. And yet it only takes one look from Olivier to see abruptly it was herself that Daniella was so angry with. Or maybe it was much more than one look. Maybe that was why she was angry all along, why she'd been distant these weeks. Daniella prides herself on her morality even as she understands context better than anyone he knew and here she was. The arm of the law shows up and she wants to break it for Tony's sake and she saw her emotional compromise, her hypocrisy in plain, stark color. Welcome to the club darling, he almost says.

"You just told me, you thought I would kill you if you saw me at work."

"Ironic, since you gate-crashed my work."

"And you're asking me, how I could ask if you want my brother in jail? When you haven't seen him in three weeks, have barely spoken to me since he was arrested?"

Daniella huffs. Haven't spoken? They'd done plenty of non-verbal communication. Didn't he see the point was he'd been off doing secret capo things and lying to her about where he was? And ~~she~~ was the distant one?

"I'm asking you not to treat me like a little girl who can't take it. I'm asking you not to stone wall me, _boyfriend_."

Olivier almost brings up she had passed out again - almost mentions he knew what she could handle, but that didn't mean she should have to - but she speaks again as if compelled.

"Though, yes. I'm not fool enough to think great fucking, diamonds or your new favorite word is enough to change the fact that push came to shove, you are always going to choose saving Tony over killing me."

Olivier feels his throat catch, heart stop and a few swept up ashes darken his eyes, strike them to water. He looks over her shoulder. The Eiffel looks so close, suddenly. It was comforting, looking at his city. Even though her words were crashing around his mind, repeatedly smacking each other with loud clashes like cymbals. He opens his mouth to refute her words, qualify them, something - point out he doesn't want to hurt her - but finds no breath to speak, so instead he purses his lips.

"I know who you are." Daniella says, and for some reason he thinks it sounds like an apology. When he looks from the tower's curved lights to her, there's a few flakes on her cheeks, crusting in the wind over a smile.

"I haven't run yet."

Her words warm murmurs, they seem to cut straight to his heart for some blasted reason; the water stings at his eyes again, heat in his chest as he manages to bring his chin back down to nod. Bringing his hand up as her smile widens, his palm cradles her jaw and covers half her face. Thumb brushing snow off her cheeks, the other hand cups her neck. He regards her gaze a long moment, then leans in to a lasting kiss, soft. They linger until their mouths are warm.

"I'm not saying," she cautions even as she cups his cheek and brushes the tears out of his eyes pretending they were nothing but snowflakes, "that I am going to blindly agree with whatever capo thing you do. I'll tell you when I think you're being a dick."

Olivier laughs, nods.

"But you don't have to hide from me." She adds, then amends, "Don't, hide from me."

D'Grey's brows melt together before he nods, slowly. He's not sure what he just agreed to, but he can promise to...try anyway. Like she'd said. She knew what his choice would be. That thrills him. And...terrifies him.

Daniella pats his cheek. "I'm seeing Tony next visiting hours. Unlike Stefanie, I actually plan to wait for them." Oli smiles again, only she pats his cheek again too and he suddenly has the feeling he's being coddled into something.

"Speaking of your brother."

Confused, Olivier figures his eyebrows ask her to elaborate as much as her statement was a natural part one of information. Frankly, considering half of what she just said, he's not sure he wants to hear it. Er. Again.

"Have you told him," she crouches to pick up the wayward glass, not even sure when it fell out of her pocket and tipped over, "you forgive him for killing Remington yet?"

Mind-blown by the abrupt shift, D'Grey stands in silence for several long moments, just twiddling his watch's gold dial. What time was it? Had it been an hour yet? He loved this watch. He barely took it off.

"He knows I'm grateful to him," D'Grey settles on saying, leaning back against a chimney grate. It frees snow and ash to fall over his shoulder, repelled by spells and he doesn't blink. Daniella's not sure he's seeing her anymore, but she persists anyway, because she's stubborn like that and he just had backed her into a corner of admitting she'd basically forgiven him for her own murder in advance. (Look, it really _is_ mind-blowing sex.)

"Grateful, yes. But not that you forgive him for taking the only parent you ever knew and loved away from you."

"It's not that simple."

"Yes it is."

"Daniella." Olivier starts. Though she gives him ample time to respond, he can't seem to finish the sentence. That was all right with her, she decides. There really was no begrudging him saying her name in such a huff like that. Daniella sighs. Her thumb wipes under her lip again. Giving him the moment, she ponders having a cigarette, even though she'd been doing so well at quitting. She hides the bottle, shrunk, back into her pocket and hears it clink against the shrunken glasses. Pocket size seventy-five dollars a bottle of wine were definitely one of her favorite things. She'd add that to the list for Stefanie's composition slash homage to Maria Von Trapp.

After regarding that iconic tower, appreciating its familiar grader, she carries her softened gaze back to his.

"Of course you shouldn't say it if it's not true. That would be worse." Daniella states the obvious. Then she un-zips and re-zips her coat, shivering in the wind.

Wow. Olivier must really be buried in his mind if he doesn't so much as blink at the sounds of her clothes fastenings. He's looking intensely at the skyline again, a possessive glint in his eye. Taking a few steps towards the ledge as he nods at her, he looks down at bustling sidewalks winding through cheery if freezing vendors. There's a calmer look to his eye, but Daniella still thinks of Kings surveying their populace. It occurs to her belatedly she actually has no idea what he's thinking. Yet he looks good holding dominion on high in his kingdom. It puts shivers down her spine and fans fire in her belly.

"I know," he speaks without turning around. "I know I should forgive him, Daniella. After all, only fair. He forgave me stealing him from Belle. And I'm not lying: I am grateful. I'm not a vampire, thanks to him, and I don't want to be."

Daniella privately thinks that was a relief to hear, even if he did sort of sound like he was acting like hybrid blood drinker was superior to the immortal night walkers. When wasn't he sounding superior, anyway? And why shouldn't he as King?

"I don't want to live forever and watch everyone I love die."

Daniella nods, compulsory, even though she knows damn well he doesn't need her acceptance. Olivier D'Grey had a special gift at being enough to justify himself and be good with it.

She goes still at his next statement, but can't judge it. Who else could but Olivier himself?

"It's the worst thing he's ever done to me, Dani." Olivier's eyes were tired, fixed unseeing on the tip of the Eiffel, voice chilled, resigned, sad. Daniella waits a moment just looking at his stone-wall face surveying the families and then notices the little side twitch of his eyebrows and knows he was holding back tears, just for a moment. Approaching his side with slow, measured steps, she just takes his wrist and squeezes tight.

"If he'd just..finished his degree. Gotten out. He might've never..." D'Grey bites his tongue, throws his hand away. There's a redness in his cheeks and Daniella knows it's not from the cold he'd probably blame if she points to it. Instead, she lets him throw it away.

"Killed him?"

"That isn't when he took Dad from me." D'Grey disagrees with weight in his throat, like something sits on his chest and compresses lungs in until they threaten to collapse, cave in. His eyes focus on her again in wonder of her words. "That's just when Dad knew he had. Frankly, Dad only had twenty minutes or so, knowing I betrayed him. He did that when he asked me to choose and said I had to lose one or the other. I've never done that to him, Daniella. Never."

Daniella nods slowly, though her heart was threatening to race in sorrow. She'd always been a bit backwards. As beautiful undeterred as he was with his earlier question and however mixed up his thoughts, the determination in her makes him smile.

"Do you forgive him?"

"For needing me?" Olivier starts, pauses, then hastens to add as his head swivels back to look at the city lights in the grey hazy midday, "-on his side?"

Ha, Daniella thinks. He needed a lot more than that. Just like he needed Stefanie. Tony truly did need to learn to love without squashing the person to death, but it was still _endearing._ After all, when there were only two people that love you unconditionally, was it any wonder you'd do anything to keep them?

(And no, she doesn't think she counts on that list, but she thinks she might be up there eventually. Maybe. Maybe she doesn't think so, maybe she just wants to be).

Olivier smiles and watching the genuine upturn on his lips? She feels her shoulders unwind, her hair let down by the inconsistent snowy wind. The curls tickle Olivier's neck, and that just makes the smile brighter.

"I will." He swears to her, and when she cocks an eyebrow as if to say in another patented Daniella Faye look that wasn't enough he chuckles dry once and adds, pointed, "And I'll tell him the second I do."

She smiles wide, earnest as she goes on her toes in the snow and kisses his cheek now. He buries in the crook of her neck, mumbling incoherent against her pulse and she feels breath naturally hitch in her throat. Lingering long enough to enjoy his warmth and rub under those blue, soulful eyes, she teasingly tugs backwards as she reminds him, "I'm at work."

"I can get them to give you the day off." He smirks at her, all signs of his anger and sadness gone. They might as well have been discussing rainbows up here for his appearance now. Bloody Italians were going to be the death of her, Daniella swears.

She breathes out and whacks his shoulder, shaking her head.

"No you can't and don't you dare." Why, was there a contradiction in there? Too late, she'd moved on. Tracing a figure eight with her stiletto in the heel, she slips back to the roof top door, and winks at him, not certain why he wasn't moving. Entranced, he chuckles and waits for the second time she baits him to actually move. They laugh together, but he's quieter. It's the only way to ensure he can hear hers.

"Hey, Daniella?" He adds at the top of the stairs, looking sideways at her. It makes her still, tossing hair over her shoulder indignantly and smile honestly, sly as it looks when he can only see half her face.

"When you said...you know me."

Was it just Olivier, or did her shades darken at the words? Her tongue definitely flick over the corner of her lips; a nervous tick of hers he'd picked up on ages ago.

"I want to know you, like that."

That wasn't what he was going to say: they both can tell that, and they both are too good at pretending otherwise to spare it another thought. He'd been about to say he knows her too, but one sideways glance from this goddamn woman and it was pretty damn clear to him, no he didn't. Not like that.

Her smile spreads, and he's definitely sure now it was just the fault of the old wiring casting a dimmer light on one side of her cheek that makes it look wicked.

"You will," she promises before kissing his lips, open mouthed to breathe into his throat, hand snaking down to take his fingers, squeeze, and tug him to descend the stairs together.


	14. What's a Detective Like You Care?

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> (you'd be surprised.)

Alys Dale was not a woman who hesitated. She gave things due consideration, took into account reasoning from all sides of any story (be it one or twelve sides that existed), but once she had committed, it left her mind. There were no doubts, because there was no affording them when one made the decisions that include shots to kill. It was easy to apply that mindset to her daily life as well.   
  
Until now. Standing in the golden hallway, heels clacking on marble, she's pacing back and forth while the judge deliberates in chambers. It's a slow pace, thumb nail bitten, pinched between her teeth. Uncomfortable, she nods at the woman officer down the line, trying to feign gratitude for sympathy undeserved. She doesn't want gratitude for catching the killer. She hadn't.   
  
That was why, uneasy as she was, it didn't bother her to think she was second-guessing herself - because she wasn't. She was second guessing Ansel Dorat, a man who she couldn't shake the feeling she knew somehow, a man whose own records were sealed. When she heard the judge's unsurprising verdict denying bail, she turns to watch the raven-haired, blue-eyed killer she'd had in her car walking down the corridor. He still wore her handcuffs. They were the only reinforced pair she had.   
  
"Monsieur.-" She turned to the Magistrat in her flippy skirt, decided.    
  
Which is how she came to be standing in one of the court's hearing rooms - clean, marble, wood table, plush chairs, a whiteboard - waiting to be left alone with Tony. She wasn't his lawyer, and she wasn't speaking against him. But as far as she was concerned, this wasn't case closed.   
  
"Couldn't wait to get me alone, huh Detective?," he asked the moment he was seated at the table after this pointless bail hearing. Why did they even have it? Having this hearing to deny him bail, something everybody already knew, was just a waste of taxpayer's dollars. Surely there must have been a precedent that could have been used to deny him bail without the hearing. Wasting everybody's time.  
  
Except Tony's, because now all he had was plenty of time.  
  
Alys Dale wanting another word with him surprised him but he took it in stride. The detectives weren't usually involved in this process. Hence the distinction in the show Law & Order: lawyers were one and cops were the other. Closely working together, sometimes butting heads, but she had come to a simple bail hearing? He was almost flattered.  
  
"You know Tony, in another life I'd say you and your brother could have made one hell of an acting team."   
  
"Another life? You should see the play I'm getting together. Sometimes I think I really missed my calling."  
  
Disregarding the mention of a play, Alys perks her chin up as she responds brightly, "Now, why is it I have no trouble believing you did miss your calling in the slightest?"  
  
The notes of bemusement inherent in her words aside, she recognized his avoidance. The trouble was, she knew what she wanted to ask. How could she do so without implicating the very person who brought her that evidence? Antonio might be conflicted (and she wasn't sure, as she pointed out, that wasn't an act), but his brother wasn't. D'Grey stood in that bail hearing without blinking, the look on his face unmistakably murderous every time those cold eyes landed on her. There was a reason Dorat requested his name be left out of this. It wasn't solely D'Grey either. Something, though she didn't know what, told her Tony would be less cooperative if he heard of Dorat's involvement. Maybe it was just that it was easy to be conciliatory when your accuser wasn't named.  
  
"You're right though, I did want to speak to you alone. First though, can I get you anything?" She points over the man's shoulder at a tray with water and little biscotti cookies on it.  
  
"More comfortable cuffs would be nice." And a razor, he was getting scruffy, some good linguini would be nice, and a cell with the general population because he quite disagreed with what mothers tell their children. No company is worse than bad company especially to someone like him. He had needs, demanding needs, of companionship.  
  
She got herself a water instead, but didn't take more than a sip, forgetting she had almost the instant she sat. Instead of sitting across the table this time, she takes the chair next to him, rolling smartly up to the wood and spinning until she's looking him straight on. Her palm lays flat on the table.  
  
"No? Ah, well, had to try." He shrugs and watches her sit next to him instead of across from him. She gave up her position of power, interesting. Playing the good cop to her previous bad cop? He hadn't forgotten about the death threat to his brother, or her calling him a leech. Tony never forgave, and he never forgot. (He never forgot movie quotes for use in everyday life, that's what.)  
  
"It's just you and me in here." She says, her voice dropping half an octave. "And you can relax," as if he wasn't already, "I'm not here to ask you about that night."  
  
"So what I can do for you instead, Detective?" His eyebrows raised, his head tilting in curiosity and wariness.  
  
Alys had his undivided attention, but that was about the only thing she knew for sure right now. Eyes narrowing only to consider him critically, she gives him a moment to let him sit with his wondering. Tony and his brother struck her as the type who didn't do well when they were unsure. (They had at least that in common.)  
  
Casting her eyes down at his handcuffs, she considered the two armed guards outside the door with his lawyer, considered the fact there was a security camera in the room, and there was also one Jensen Stone in the building. Granted, Vito's old buddy probably would be angry with her for what she was about to do, but she opened her blazer slowly while keeping eye contact.   
  
Okay so, sue him for looking. But what else are you supposed to do when a woman starts to unbutton in front of you? Look away, avert your gaze, be a gentleman? Most women didn't like gentlemen. Up until a certain age, or rather life-stage, nice guys did end last. Boy, was that a loaded saying. Nice guys finish last. Time to get away from that statement.  
  
More surprising than anything else that might have come out of the unbuttoned blazer, she came away with a key to un-cuff him. She must have been either extremely sure of herself or extremely sure that he wouldn't kill her and try to make a run for it. Detective Alys Dale didn't seem like the one to put her fate into someone else's hands.  
  
When she slips her hand back out, it's with a little brass key.   
  
"As it happens, I need my cuffs back." She sounds off hand as she gestures at his, letting a smirk cross her lips. "We both know they're not easy to come by."   
  
They were magical, she meant, and could hold someone with his strength down. He likely was wondering where she got them, but well, that was something Alys wasn't going to share. As she goes to free his hands, she speaks with a not insufficient amount of her own wariness coloring her tone purposefully.   
  
"And I want to know if you're aware of any enemies you have."  
  
Despite whatever her reasoning could be, he would be a good little boy. He offered her his wrists, lifting them so she could take back her magical cuffs. How many magical creatures did she actually catch? And did the magical French government ever interfere? They couldn't just let muggle detectives handle vampires and werewolves, it was out of their jurisdiction and way out of their capabilities. Sometimes the incompetence of some people were enough to give him a migraine. Or maybe that was just the sub-par food he'd been eating at the prison.  
  
"Would you like them alphabetically?" He asked sarcastically, his eyebrows rising before he answered a bit more serious.  
  
"I'm not a very popular guy, and that's without adding the fact I'm a D'Grey. So yeah, I've got more than a few."  
  
"I'd like them in order of how high their threat to you would be," she says, snapping the cuffs back together and opening her blazer again to slip them away. She didn't mind his cocked eyebrow or his bemused smirk. Tony was in an all-men facility, after all, and calling him out for his moment of fantasy would only deplete good will. Their relationship began on a poolside. He was naked, and she threw him in jail.  
  
A little good will could go a long way, she was thinking.   
  
"But I'd take it in rhyming musical lyrics so long as you're honest with me, Tony." Gaze still on his, she finishes the thought with a wide smile and unsure eyes. "And as far as I'm aware, your last name can be just as much of an asset."   
  
He had to think about that for a moment. Well as far as big threats went, he was literally inviting a dark magic witch who hated him with every fiber of her being and who has stated, on more than one time, that she would like nothing better than to kill him, and who had plenty of enough skill to do so. That was pretty high on the list, especially because she didn't fear Olivier like the majority of his enemies which were the friends, family, and associates of every single person he's offed in the past month.  
  
And if the vamps ever found out about Remington, forget it, he should start looking at intergalactic travel.  
  
He took his hands back, rubbing his wrists to get some circulation into them again, chuckling once with dry amusement at her last sentence before shrugging.  
  
"Sure." Tony said nothing else on that touchy subject before looking back up at her. He really was contemplating giving her Audrey's name if only in the vague hope that the little witch would get a little roughed up but that didn't seem likely to happen. Mostly because he didn't know why Alys wanted the names of his enemies and it could very well be because she was looking for more evidence to keep him locked away for good.  
  
"Afraid I can't do that."  
  
It was the answer Alys expected. Without blinking, her lips flick up and her eyebrows crease.  
  
"You have people in your life who want to kill you." It's a bullet of a statement, and she doesn't pretend it's a question. She just looks straight on, letting him rub at his wrists, adjust in the seat, think and consider.   
  
"You have people in your life who want to kill you," she repeats (emphasis, she thought anyone with the last name of D'Grey understood that and she would't insult him and pretend it was for his benefit she did so). "They want to kill you, and you won't tell me their names."  
  
Alys smiles.   
  
"Somehow I doubt it's because you're actually afraid."   
  
Leaning back in her chair now, she shifts to adjust the blazer as she reaches for the glass of water again. Her throat had gone mysteriously dry. Eyes flicking up at the clock on the wall, she watches the second hand tick, tick, tick, then sets the glass down. It settles so softly the water-line doesn't even wiggle.  
  
Sad, undeniable truth. It happened. She must know a little about that, being a detective and all. There must be a great number of people who want her dead as well, anyone she ever locked up, every master plan she had foiled and crime she had prevented must have gotten her her fair share of enemies. So he didn't exactly understand why she needed to repeat that statement, as if it were so incredulous. His eyebrows rose to speak what his mouth would not. 'Yes, and?', 'Well it's a hard-knock life, what can I say?', 'You live and let live, madame', etc etc.  
  
"Listen to me, Tony. If we were in America, I would be talking to the ADA to see if they could offer you a plea bargain. Only we're not, and I'm in no position to do so. Judge Martine is. I say this, because while I'm sure criminal justice at NYU mentioned differences, I'm not nearly as sure your background would impress upon you the nuanced differences between the two."   
  
She breathes out, but she still hasn't blinked. Her heels hook around the metal chair leg.  
  
"The largest difference, is that American cases considered on an entire range of circumstances, only the public doesn't ever see that. A defendant pleads down to the best deal they can get, and the details of why they did so are never disclosed. The case documents only the winner or the loser. In many civil cases, you can just plead 'no contest', there doesn't ever have to be a record of your guilt or innocence. Gavel bangs, you pay a fine, and you go home."  
  
Or you go away for life, or serve consecutive sentences, or do community service, Alys thinks. Her brain was muddied. The speech stirs something in memory; this wasn't the first time she spoke with a defendant on leniency options. Only she wasn't a lawyer, she thinks. The only way she could be lenient was if she buried evidence -- which she would *never do.*   
  
So why was it sticking in her mind?  
  
"Here?" She asks rhetorically, forcing herself to look back up and poking her index finger into the table. "Your motive is near decidedly irrelevant to the sentence. All I care about is knowing the truth. I want to know why you were charged. And the truth as I see it now is, you were right to point out that guilty or innocent, it never had much to do with why you were charged."  
  
Her chin lifts.   
  
"But you weren't right, when you told me you weren't involved. That you were just," she offers her hand up into the air, wry, "just the chess board on which bigger men play their game. They put you in jail, Tony. If that's not personal, then what the hell have you been doing? And if there's someone out there who wants you to fry for this, if you do tell me, I might be able to help you."  
  
Well, no, he wasn't going to tell her the name of his enemies. If they turned up mysteriously dead via food poisoning, or a drowning, or a car accident, he didn't want even the slightest inclination to be directed towards him. Then again if he happened to be in jail at the time, that would make a pretty strong alibi.  
  
Wait, time to pay attention, she was lecturing him. Rather, passing on her knowledge to him. Tony seemed to have that effect. Was it his adorable puppy face? Did he just look so lost and confused and in need of consistent guidance? Or did he look completely out of his league? Either way, this wasn't necessary. She might not know it, as she did base her reasoning in the fact that he had studied criminal justice in America, not over here. And that was sound logic, but he had spent half of his childhood and a portion of his adulthood in France. He knew the way it worked, especially after he came back. He devoured every piece of legislation, every law, every book, every single thing to make sure that when he did get Remington put away, it was going to be for life. Well, death. Whatever, it never got to that.  
  
"Rule of thumb is if it's not personal, then it's business. If it -were- personal, I'd be dead, not in jail," he shrugged and then considered that. Or if it was personal, then it was someone fairly conflicted...or with a hypocritical sense of justice because come on. Every single one of his enemies was dirtier than he was.  
  
"By getting me 50 years in jail instead of life?" He asked and then scrunched his nose, shaking his head.   
  
Unfazed (but definitely bemused), she asks, "And what business precisely is putting you in a cell going to accomplish, Tony?"   
  
"The business of distracting my brother from his," he answered simply enough, a smug smile on his lips and then waited for the answer to his admittedly brazenly put question, slash accusation.  
  
"You put bad guys away detective. What I don't understand is why you're suddenly giving a fuck about the bad guy. Pardon my French."  
  
Ironic, that he said that, considering they were in France and neither one of them had actually spoken a word of French. For Alys, it was the simple fact that she had been born in, grew up in England until she was fourteen. Learning the language didn't change the fact she was most comfortable in her native tongue. She wonders if Tony feels the same way about Italian, but only for an instant. The irrelevancy alone stifles her.  
  
She was comfortable in English, because Tony was right. After spending her adult life learning every thing she could on matters of ethics and justice, studying and applying for homicide detective twice with the policia national, having to convince half the precinct that the fact she wasn't born French wouldn't affect her ability to do the job. Alys had always wanted to bring up the fact that not being French or Parisian left her without the clear bias on the family of D'Grey as a point in her favor. Now she arrested one and it felt...  
  
"I give a fuck," she explains without pardoning herself, "because I don't appreciate being used, and I trust it less. I give a fuck because your brother didn't open his mouth in that court room once, but every television tonight is going to carry a clip of his distress seeing you sentenced."   
  
In an Armani suit and silk tie, clean, presentable. Just as he was in the single comment he gave after your arrest a week ago, when he sounded like he was a clean-cut business man running for office. There was more where it came from, Alys knew. She could see it coming. What she didn't know was if the tide turning to the D'Grey brothers defense was his making a bad situation work for him, or if it was orchestrated that way in the first place. She didn't know because Ansel Dorat had given her the information for no apparent reason, and she didn't trust the Parisian bastard as far as she could throw him.   
  
(Except she seemed to, because she'd acted, and she didn't know why.)  
  
"And," she raises a finger, "I give a fuck, because I don't think you're a bad guy, Tony. I would say I didn't know you from Adam, but we both know I looked into you, and honestly Caesar?" Her lips flick up. "Either the business of erotica has become one of the strangest, fronts, that I have ever seen with one agent and publishing house packing their books with coke, or you've never been a part of the organization your last name links you to. Well," she waves off, "except by blood. And there's hundred other interesting tidbits, all pointing to the fact that no one is black or white, and that your last name is unbearably ironic. Actually, quick side question because I just have to know, did you actually compete with the Scottish Eurovision team, or is that just a rumor?"   
  
She did give a fuck? Huh, well that was surprising to hear and also entertaining. He put his elbow on the table, holding his head up with his hand and kept watching her give reasons and say the word fuck over and over again. Not a bad way to spend the rest of the afternoon, maybe not the best way but he wasn't complaining.  
  
She even knew about his book! That made Tony beam. He wondered if she had grown curious enough to read the book.  
  
"Sequel's coming soon, shhhh," he brought his other hand up to his face, placing a single finger on his lips before winking and the dropping the hand again, "you didn't hear it from me." No way to incriminate him with that piece of information could she? Or maybe the prosecution was going to write how he was a pervert.  
  
"Fact. But it was a huge misunderstanding and we treated the team for dinner when they didn't place because I felt bad."   
  
What a good soul! Yeah, at 17 he was a real sweetheart. Untainted, unsoiled (pft), thinking he could manage to live a better life. He would say how low the mighty have fallen but the closest he ever got to being mighty was the time he dressed up as a Power Ranger for Halloween.  
  
"I'm gonna go out on a limb here," poor choice of words given his murder charges but it wasn't a bad situation until he made an insensitive joke about it, "and guess you're having second thoughts on this anonymous informant of mine."  
  
"I never said there was an anonymous informant, Tony," she prefaces with a sly smile at his leading question, "but it's not a guess when it's exactly what I just told you."   
  
Alys corrects with a tiny upturn to her lips. There was no expression of being 'caught', considering she knew what she was doing there. She knew she was jeopardizing the case. Except she wasn't, because the evidence was turned in, and that camera wasn't recording audio, and there was no one else in the room. She knew that anything Tony said she said, even if it was directly verbatim, might get her in trouble with her boss--but wouldn't do anything but make it look like Tony was lying to complain about the referee.  
  
Irregardless, he had made a decent point. Even more true, putting D'Grey off doing business was an excellent reason to do anything. So why was she fishing?  
  
Indicating Tony, she asked, "But I don't have second thoughts, Tony, I merely go where evidence points me. You know you just smiled, when you said your brother would be distracted from work? It wasn't the kind of smile one gets when they're bitter. That's curious, isn't it? I also think it's curious that you won't name your enemies, people who threaten you, but don't worry, I'm not offended by the lack of trust. I'm sure your brother knows each and every one of their names, and I'm sure he's got more efficient methods of dealing with it."   
  
Her eyes narrow, as if in accusation -- but truth was the exact opposite. When she mentioned his brother before (well, threatened him), it was the only moment Tony hadn't seemed amused.  
  
"I check, on all my sources, Tony--but I don't think it's outrageous to be suspicious here. If there's something else going on, I want to know, because I will do everything in my power to prevent the miscarriage of justice. The legal system isn't a chess match to toy with, it's not child's play to be used, and as flattered as I am babe, I'm not that kind of whore."   
  
True, she had been very outright about the fact that she didn't like being used and fucked over. That was plain as day as far as he could tell. Tony guessed that whoever gave Alys this information had thought she would take it to get his ass landed in jail with very little questions asked. Or maybe she just happened to be one of the few detectives who would even bother entertaining a folder of evidence against Olivier D'Grey's younger brother. Either way, now that Tony was in jail while he awaited his trial to begin, it seemed that detective Alys' fury would be directed elsewhere.  
  
He sighed, dropping his hand and leaning back in his chair again as Alys started assuming and psychoanalyzing. And things had been doing so well before that, now the progress was back to square one. For the time being at least, however long it took him to get away from the annoyance.  
  
One thing was sure, even if he didn't dare say it aloud for a wish not to insult Alys (but it was fine to let her insinuate he couldn't fight his own battles off course, Tony D'Grey specialized in double standards), but this was way out of her league, way above her pay grade. Maybe whoever gave her those cuffs could tell her about how complicated and far-stretching this really was, but it was more than one muggle detective could handle.  
  
"That doesn't give me much incentive to help you." He kind of needed a little miscarriage of justice after all if he hoped to get out of here.  
  
No, Alys supposed it didn't. Lips pursing, eyes narrowing and after another quick glance at the clock where she concludes she might have been overzealous considering the short period of time they'd spent there, she leans back in her chair as well.  
  
"I suppose not." Better to lead with the truth than the insinuation. He didn't seem to take kindly to that -- although, in her defense she thinks, she *was* a homicide detective. Deduction kind of went with the job.   
  
"And I'll do you the favor and over look that you just basically said my helping you wouldn't be preventing any miscarriage of justice," unless telling him it out right didn't count as overlooking, she supposed that was valid too.   
  
"I'm not suggesting a bribe, Tony, and I can't do much in the deal department. What I can do, is if the evidence leads elsewhere, I can insure it's considered with valid weight. I can't promise anything. From what I remember," Alys decided to say after surveying him for a long moment, eyebrow starting to rise, "You wouldn't like me very much if I could."    
  
"Hmm, I didn't say anything," he remarked happily enough. It was the jury he had to lie to, oh sorry, manipulate and withhold the truth from, not the detective. But even knowing that Tony wasn't dumb enough to say such a thing plainly and aloud. He only looked like an ignorant fool, he wasn't actually one (most of the time).  
  
Considered with valid weight. Did he sound this ridiculous to Olivier back when Tony was still yelling at him to do the right thing and become the good person for the sake of goodness along? Probably not, Tony was far more annoying and definitely not as pretty as Detective Alys Dale. Sometimes Tony wondered what he'd look like as a woman actually, for fun and curiosity. Eva Green? Ooh maybe Elisabetta Canalis if she had blue eyes.  
  
"True, Detective, but I'm still not telling you. How is a list of my supposed enemies going to help? Going to check which one rings a bell, which one put in the tip? Cuz if you make that realization right now, I'll know it." True, he was 'detoxing' if you would but he could still hear her heart in this small room clearly. He'd instantly pick up on the jump her heart would make at the recognition. And the moment Tony realized who put him in here, they were gone. After a well deserved hand shake of recognition, but they were gone and only half of that would be without his own permission.  
  
Would he? She sits up straighter, curious, as the moment he'd figured out the game plan it had ceased being valid. Now instead she was curious how he would know it. It didn't strike her as a dismissal of her skills as a detective, strangely, but rather a ... simple fact. It reminded her he wasn't entirely human. Head tilting as she considers him, she nods once, twice.  
  
"I said before I already checked my sources." She smiles, this time more honestly. "But more information, contrary to--", she pauses, because she'd been about to say 'your brother', only antagonizing him wasn't going to help anything in this case, "popular belief, actually only helps. I can only help so far as you let me help you, Tony. " She shrugs, then adds honestly, "Although now, I must say I would enjoy a round of poker with you."  
  
Far from the simple problem (or okay, very complex and uneasy problem) of figuring out what Dorat wanted, there was the difficulty of his "hybrid" state. And she wanted to know what indeed, would be safest.   
  
Beyond that, she just wanted...answers, dammit. She bites down on her lip, eyes piercing his before she finally just states it.   
  
"Claude Simmons accosted me a day and a half ago."  
  
Now of course he had to consider the fact that he had purposefully warned her of his ability to hear the distinction with the intent of not allowing him to find out who the one at fault was. Tony confused a lot of people, but none more than he confused himself. Too late to take anything back now; he would not be learning the name of the person today. Though again given the fact that he wasn't deep underground already, buried between half a dozen feet of worm infested damp soil eating on his corpse meant that the little witch was pretty wiped from the list.  
  
Olivier, she had meant, his brother's beliefs. Well, clearly, Alys didn't know Olivier. The man practically lived off Littlefinger's testament that knowledge is power (as much as he lived off Cersei's statement that power is power; Tony preferred the beauty is power concept himself, but he digressed). The more you knew, the better it was, but he would add a modifier. The more you knew than other people, the better. Thinking like this was exhausting, honestly.  
  
He had to restrain laughter because help him? Help him? He didn't even understand what she really wanted or what she planned to do with it once she got it. All Tony knew was that if it was gonna make her keep poking around Tony's life, and the mess of vampires, werewolves, hunters, and dark magic witches in it, it wasn't going to end very pretty.  
  
"Only if the round of poker is accompanied by a round of beer, and I get to call you by your name, Detective." Making plans for when he got out before his trial had even started. That was practically asking for bad karma to come a-knocking.  
  
"Yeah, he really doesn't know how to say 'hi' very well does he?" Tony was a little amused at her verb of choice for Claude's action. Accosted sound a little extreme though.  
  
"I've been calling you by your first name for more than a week now, Tony," Alys said it there too purposefully, lifting her finger. "Call me whatever you like."   
  
"As a prisoner of the system, I feel compelled to call an officer by her title, but as a man in a budding friendship with an officer of the law, she I could address by name, and you accepting the offer for poker and beer is also an acceptance of my hand in friendship. Call you what I like? Am I a Neanderthal?"   
  
It's true, he did give out nicknames but if you'll note, the people who got their nicknames the fastest were actually the people he didn't like: Wolfie (though fine, that wasn't the original one), Wolfie 2.0, Oompa Loompa, Little Witch, etc. The nicknames of the people he did like, that took longer and only after they had achieved a certain sense of camaraderie (except for Mighty Mouse because there are literally too many short jokes available for him -not- to use).  
  
"A Neanderthal?" Alys asked with some trepidation, shaking her head without ceasing her smile. "No. I think your identity is enough questioned by one parent being a vampire and the other human: I'm not adding prehistoric origins to the list."  
  
She was mostly joking with him now, but it was true enough.  
  
It wasn't escaping her that he meant very clearly 'after my brother gets me out of prison' - especially including the fact that a round of beer wasn't exactly an option in jail. At least not with her. Just because she knew what he meant, didn't mean she had to be rude. After all, if he had been framed or set up (doubtful, but it was the only way she'd stand his acquittal), she wouldn't say no to a night out.  
  
"Though I do wonder," she shrugs a shoulder, "what your -beautiful- blonde," she said that adjective easily recalling (it helped as a detective to have her memory; so why couldn't she figure out where she knew Dorat from?) that he corrected her once before, "would say about that."   
  
"Much," he guessed, nodding, "but I'd say more back." See when he said poker and beer, he actually did mean poker and beer not raunchy sex on top of the discarded cards on a green felt table. Assuming he would dissolve to dishonorable purpose spoke more about her than it did about him. That last sentence was in a little sing-song voice in his head.  
  
She goes to stand up again, reaching for her water glass and finishing it off. The biscotti was tempting her too. Dammit, and she was supposed to be on best behavior here. (The irony didn't escape her; that she was hungry when Tony was apparently likely to be 'starving'.)   
  
"That would be an understatement." She says plainly, though all right, accosted was a harsh verb. Lips flicking up as she moves to button the blazer back up, she continues at ease. "He holds you in high esteem. He also," she tilts her head, "told me he was worried about you."  
  
Aww, the Miyagi to his La Russo, worried about him- wait, he was Miyagi 2.0 now, he called technical foul! Worried about him? To the back of the bus.  
  
Oh no wait. She holds her finger up, immediately correcting herself, bright. "No, hold on, worried for the other inmates suffering at -your- hand. As he made it very clear he trained you himself. What I don't understand is how a vampire hunter," it felt strange to say the word aloud, but certainly much better than dancing around it, "mentors someone who drinks blood themselves."  
  
Oh, okay, never mind, he stood corrected. There that was better. Not the best, as who did these people think he was going to do? Kill himself a few dozen inmates for food and sport? He wasn't even harming them in self-defense. Tony just gave little taps, or pushes, when he needed to, blocked the rest. He coughed, rubbed his chest and tilted his head. Normal, violence free life, that was him.  
  
"I'm sure you have a few theories," he credited her with a gesture of his hand, nodding with a simple smirk. Why? So many whys but she hadn't asked why, she had asked how.  
  
"By beating the shit out of me on a daily basis and filling me up with cheap scotch. Oh, the good old days," he smirked again and tilted his head with a little nod. Yes, the good old days where he avoided home, his father, and his brother, then got mad when Olivier chose to be like their father, then yelled at him about it, then got drunk and high on a regular basis. Yeah, best years of his life.  
  
A technical answer, she thinks unamused, listening and filing away all he tells her with a small smirk unmoved on her lips. Her theories she admits exist, but with no more than a half-inch nod. Tony knew already she was an investigative detective: of course she was theorizing. The trouble was all her ideas were formed from induction, she has nowhere near a comfortable level of evidence. Tony seemed stubbornly set to acknowledge himself as only a hypocrite. On the one hand, he repeatedly called himself a bad man, insinuated that justice could only be served by locking him up. On the other, he clearly didn't want to be behind bars, or he wouldn't have warned her of his abilities in the first place, and he wouldn't plead "Not Guilty".   
  
Conflicted people were the most passive she had ever met. Unable to commit to one or the other idea, they let life happen at them, or make one choice and then immediately act against it's interest. What was so discomforting now, was the awareness that Alys was doing the same thing.  
  
So she listens, carefully, letting 'good ol' days' pass her by as the unimportant speculation that it was.   
  
"If you're asking why though, it's because I asked him to." Tony said.   
  
That makes her eyebrow snap to the center of her forehead.  
  
"Asked." Alys echoed. Do hunters usually take the prey's opinion into account? She wants to ask that, but thinks it rude and after all, she does still want his help. He hadn't denied either what he was, hadn't even flinched (though the cough and rubbing his chest weren't the actions of someone comfortable either).   
  
"I'm glad to hear that." She says instead, and it was honest. "That you asked him for help, I mean. I understand why you wouldn't trust me, I do. Calling me Detective or Alys won't change that either, which is why I don't care which it is."   
  
She's standing up now, but she hasn't walked away yet.  
  
"But I think it's clear that only depending on your brother and your own stubbornness to get you out of trouble in the long run, hasn't done anything but put you in jail, Tony. Enemies or not."  
  
Tony's lips lifted in amusement as he recalled the words of a wise man, and then echoed them, "Telling me not to trust you won't make me trust you any further." He twiddled with his thumbs, ran all that she was saying in his head but the problem still remained. Admission of his enemies could wind up coming to bite him in the ass later on. Especially because he was a criminal and she was a detective, and that plot only worked in tv shows, and it also got old quick. So, no thank you, he would take his chances.  
  
Funny, he thought killing those people is what put him in jail. "Really? It's not done -anything- but that for me? At all? Detective, I didn't realize you had become such an expert in my life." He tilted his head up to look at her better as she stood, a smirk on his lips.  
  
"I do have a trust issue though, you're right. I want to give my trust too quickly. Looking back on my life, that doesn't seem to be working out well for me. So I'll keep this one a little closer to the chest," he patted over his heart and then shook his head.  
  
"Besides you still haven't told me...well, much of anything," he laughed once, "and appealing to my better nature only works with a pretty please cherry on top."  
  
"I wasn't playing a game, Tony." Alys responds with the corner of her smile lifting. He would assume that. He wouldn't even (usually) with her, be wrong. More than half of what she'd said was a tease, a plot, a seduction (of the information sorts).   
  
"Just stating the fact."   
  
Buttoning the top of her blazer, she throws the little plastic glass away (two points, without looking, and in an announcer voice she declares: let that buzzer ring). Then looks back to him. He still was enjoying the look up her front (how shocking; not), and she wasn't going to deny he had a point there too.   
  
"You're probably right though, it probably has done more than that for you." His brother had been honestly concerned for Tony in that courtroom when the wooden gavel nailed that the case was going forward. That was what worried her. This country had been under a D'Grey's thumb for a century; even newcomers such as herself knew never to underestimate them.  
  
"I simply was speaking as sum-all, I suppose. " She gestures at him, then laughs. "Taking the cuffs off wasn't a cherry on top? I did trust you, not to attack me. If you were this cold-blooded killer - actually, scratch that, this starving, uncontrollable, vampire-hybrid, you wouldn't be standing here still. Funny, I thought the ones who don't run are innocent. Everything you've said says you believe the opposite, and yet." Another quick gesture at him. "Here you are."   
  
"Force of habit," he answered, shrugging before just staring in half amazement- how many buttons did that blazer top have? She'd been buttoning for what seemed like ages. Was this some sort of visual trick? Like the never-ending staircase? God, woman. More like a vortex though, he was in mortal danger of being sucked in and never heard from again.  
  
"Nope," he shook his head, "doesn't count." Taking his cuffs off had been a decision made from a position of power. A decision to give it up, sure, but a pretty please with a cherry on top involved a little more vulnerability. More vulnerability than trusting you not to kill her, Tony? Yes, unnamed voice in my head, yes, more than that.  
  
"Your point being?"  
  
"I'm entirely sure you know what I just suggested."   
  
Entirely sure, Alys thinks, because Tony was a smarter man than the prosecution was giving him credit for already. With the singular exception, it seemed, of his inability to keep his eyes upwards (that might be why she'd unbuttoned and re-buttoned the top of her burgundy blazer three times now. She couldn't decide which she preferred he see. He didn't seem to mind either way, having his attention drawn).   
  
With an exhale, she pushes the chair back in and walks off of the table, then turns around and folds her arms on her chest. There was too much at stake, too much she didn't know and Alys abhorred that simple fact. So she turns back to him, because she has one more thing to ask and she wants to know if her guess was right already.  
  
"You were at Notre Dame."  
  
And so was she, technically, making arrests and helping to direct the citizens away from potentially fiery graves. He hadn't stuck around though. The only good thing he had managed to do that day was -not- feed otherwise his 'm.o.' would have been splattered all over another crime scene and the connection could have been drawn.  
  
Detective Dale made that connection all on her own. From whatever knowledge she had learned and acquired, and further whatever inferences she must have made when the information stopped, she had guessed correctly. Should he bother applauding? Two and two make four, and correct addition wasn't celebrated beyond the age of 6.  
  
He shrugged, replying with small amusement at himself, he had to be his own audience now, "Pics or it didn't happen."  
  
"No thanks," she said immediately, mirroring the knowledgeable look he wore. He knew she had guessed that. Ironic he confirms for her something after all, exactly as he said he would be able to glean from her.   
  
And now she did have a lead to go off of. If he was at Notre Dame, there were other witnesses and files she could go through to connect Ansel with too; and the model girlfriend. At the very least, Alys knew Jensen could fill her in further.   
  
(Once he ceased chewing her out for uncuffing Tony.)  
  
Alys smirks as she said lightly, "I already have enough pictures of you, Tony."   
  
Then she turned, opening the door and gesturing the two bailiffs as she adds aloud, "He'll need a new set of handcuffs."  
  
Not that these were magically enforced. (But he was starving for it; his strength should be lessened.) So see, Antonio? She got him more comfortable ones in the end anyways, just as requested.   
  
Oh Alys, she mutters to herself once she was outside, hands bridging her flippy skirt and looking at the skyline. *The hell have you just gotten into?*


	15. Aren't you going to offer me a drink first?

It was late, which had suited Ansel well long before the moon meant anything to him, and still is true now. The walkway was slippery from rain, cement painted in the half moon so a shiny glimpse down would have been enough to remind him he was giving too much away on his face. Alphas (it was hard still to think of himself as one) gave nothing away. They took, paid in kind and they were deliberate, even when it came to their emotions. If he could not keep this grief off his cheeks, how could he hope to impress anyone, lead anyone?   
  
He walked by his old house without a word.   
  
Trust Gabe to move three blocks from their father's house, he thinks bitterly, spitting at the cobble and cornerstone before rounding it. The high rises down the newer arrondissement in Paris stretched in front of him - even if "new" was admittedly a relative term, and the street dated two centuries at least. Eyes falling on the park in he'd played as a boy, the corners of his lips curl up as he changes course. Why not a swing set? Was it not as good as any park bench? Dressed in green and grey cashmere, Ansel stuffed a fist into one pocket to stretch it out as he sat. Else it would wrinkle. The other hand looped the chain as he gave a single kick and took off. He must have looked strange; a grown man in dark colors in a children's park at this hour but, at least people would give him a wide berth. They wouldn't be wrong to consider him dangerous, even if he wants to laugh at the thought. He was far less of a danger to this city than the man they kept exalting in the paper.   
  
"You actually came."   
  
It was his brother's voice - gruff, low, effortlessly restraining from the same emotion still on Ansel's cheeks - but he hardly recognized the man when he spun around. Giving a tilt to his head, Ansel echoes genially, "You called, mon frere."  
  
"A half dozen times, to be truthful."  
  
"Oui. I'd offer apologies, but that would be tantamount to suggesting I should have ah - come when you whistled for me."  
  
His brother's mouth twisted, but Ansel did not think that was a smile. Of course it wouldn't be. He rarely succeeded in making his brother smile anymore, and did not think it would be over such a bitter joke. The evidence of the last time they had spoken was still ripped into Gabe's chest under that doctor's coat.   
  
"I wouldn't have thought it such," Gabe shook his head at him once and took a step towards his little brother, "but I can see why you might think I meant to slight you."  
  
"Slight me?" Ansel's voice was sharp as the claws had been when they broke Gabriel's flesh. Toe drawing a line beneath his feet, he stopped swinging. Gabriel took the hint, and stopped walking, with a heavy sigh that for a moment reminded Ansel so deeply of their mother he found he could not speak.    
  
"Yes," Gabriel took advantage of his lapse, shadows long on his face and hand equally curled in his left pocket, just as Ansel's was. "I imagine you believe I remain angry with you, so insulting you would be expected."  
  
Once, Ansel wouldn't have been able to follow that logic. It did not shame him to admit it. A decade spent with Hans fancying himself the new Shakespeare had cured him of that. Nuanced language had long become second nature. It happened, when you spent so much time with murderers and bastards.   
  
"And are you not angry with me?" Ansel asks sardonic allowing a similar twist to his mouth. Gabriel pursed his lips. Then - to his surprise and suspicion - he shook his lead.   
  
"Not at the moment."  
  
"And at the moment..."  
  
"...I'm simply happy to see you, mon frere. Are you going to sit in that swing all night, or will you at least shake my hand to greet me properly?"  
  
“Have I ever been proper in my life, Gabe?”  
  
Despite the sardonic gibe, Ansel gets off the swing. The wary approach he makes goes unnoticed apparently. There were few things his brother did not excel in. One of them was expecting the best of someone when he could expect the worst at every turn. Perhaps it was something that happened to doctors; trained to notice every inadequecy in tiny X-Ray scans to a person’s heart, to detail every flaw, how did they not carry that over into their personal life? Ansel didn’t fancy being scanned.  
  
Grasping his brother’s hand tighter than he should, he shrugs a shoulder, then uses the palm-squeeze to yank Gabriel into a hug. It’s not a warm embrace. Short, to the point, and surprising, Gabriel doesn’t have the time to reciprocate before Ansel’s pulled back grinning like he’d won something.  
  
“Niceties observed then?” He asks. Another haunted sigh leaves Gabriel’s lips, like something he couldn’t help, but he doesn’t comment on it. Tense like Allison was before she sprang on unsuspecting prey, Ansel waits.  
  
And waits.  
  
Gabriel hasn’t stopped staring at him. Dropping hand back into his pocket, Ansel’s eyes briefly glance to it as if he’d forgotten where it was, then back up. He’s rocked back on his edge. Cocking his head again, he asks, impatient, “Well?”  
  
“Forgive me, just,” Gabriel spoke in a tone that suggests he wasn’t expecting any (good), “is there a reason we might not be able to do this inside my house?”  
  
“And what is this, anyway?” Ansel asks, his hand balling tighter in his pocket for all the glib ease he speaks with. “You haven’t called me in nearly six years, Gabe.”  
  
“You didn’t exactly leave me your number either,” Gabriel retorts. The quick response seems to startle himself, but it left Ansel smiling again. At least there were some things that didn’t change. A few, far between, that showed he still could get a human response out of the automoton doctor that had replaced his brother in the intervening years since they’d last spoke.  
  
“No, I suppose I didn’t,” Ansel allows a frown on his lips, small, “I didn’t fancy your judgement on constant voice mail.”  
  
“Did you need admonishment?”   
  
See, it was things like that, Ansel thinks. Gabriel had a way of confrontation that made you end up face yourself rather than him, and somehow lose at the same time. It was a talent he envied as an adolescent. Now it was one he probably should learn, if he hoped to be an alpha still when D’Grey retaliated -- but then, there shouldn’t be hope involved. If he had to wonder if he was in charge, he was already lost. Scowling, his eyebrows narrow.  
  
“I don’t believe I do, no.”  
  
“But it was you, right? You’re the one that put D’Grey in jail?”  
  
That, startled him, and then pleased him more than he had the words to admit. Gabriel seemed to guess, if his face scrunching up and looking over his shoulder was any indication, but at least Ansel wasn’t being underestimated anymore. With a widening smile, he said, “Do you know what? I think we can do this inside your place after all.”  
  
Gabriel snorts, but he turns the same shoulder he’d just glanced over to indicate where to go. Ansel walks by him, then slows his pace to outstrip his brother’s only by a single step. No need to show off. There was no doubt in him that Allison wouldn’t have heard; somewhere in the trees of the jardin, his sister would be shuffling, watching, reading her digital screen and lamenting his sentimentality with all the genuinity of a child promising they won’t stay up past nine p.m. She didn’t have to watch him, Ansel would tell her if he weren’t exceptionally glad she did. For a moment he thinks about Rachelle, but that turns his mouth hard and chest hot, so he stops. Like he flips he switch.   
  
Now two steps in front of Gabriel, he turns as they slip into a platinum plated elevator. It hums until it’s locked in gears. Ansel makes out their well-oiled revolutions with a sideline smirk, because for all their fancy digital screens, the machine still needed gears and pullies to run. A shiny facade always brought a smile to his lips.  
  
Gabriel didn’t seem to notice their silence, until they were inside his flat, two doors down off the elevator, the hall decorated like something out of the nineteen-eighties. Bright carpets, pscyadelic photos, it was “funky”, a word he’d never thought in conjunction with his brother. At least, not since he went to medical school.   
  
When they were inside, Gabriel breaks the silence.  
  
“Is D’Grey spying on you, then?”   
  
The question takes him aback, before realizing his asking for them to relocate must have looked like he was wary of being overheard. Oh, Gabe, he clucks his tongue and shakes his head.  
  
“First,” He holds a hand and an index finger up, “It was the younger D’Grey I had imprisoned, not the elder. Second, I would know if I were being spied on and if I had any doubts,” he taps his ear with the index finger, “I’d hear the bug whirring.”   
  
His tongue traces the outline of his upper lip as his finger falls to guide it, and he takes his light jacket off.   
  
“Third, aren’t you going to offer me a drink?”  
  
Gabriel chuckles, incredulous. There was a look on his face that would not have been out of place if he walked into a circus tent and saw elephants standing on rubber balls. Yet he doesn’t ask a question this time, says only, “I have water and tea, but I doubt that’s the sort you meant.”  
  
It was Ansel’s turn to look as if he was at a circus, and his brother was the lion who was yawning wide enough a dwarf could tumble through. Twisting to glance at the art-deco poster prints on white walls instead of giving away his surprise, Ansel walks in to the kitchen. They’d gone up thirteen floors, so the view over the sink looked out at the park his sister would be lurking in now.   
  
“Sober then?”   
  
“On call,” Gabriel responded, not unkindly (as if he still remembered, as if he could ever forget). Then he went for the tea pot, with the look of one just needing something to do with his hands. Ansel wondered if they itch for a scalpal the same way his do for blood. Probably not. Both of them might cut people open, but his brother (as ever) was more restrained about it.   
  
And oh, right, wasn’t he specializing in some form of drug protocols now?  
  
“So it really is true, then,” Gabriel said as he set the water boiling.   
  
“Is what true?”   
  
“You successfully commanded a coup and took charge of your...pack.”   
  
Gabriel said that word ‘pack’ with only some disdain, but Ansel was sensitive to it. And why wouldn’t he be? How could anyone understand the dynamic of their pack unless they were a part of one?   
  
Arching an eyebrow, he folds his arms up and leans against an island counter. It takes Ansel a moment, but he nods with a bark of a laugh, pleased in spite of himself for figuring it out.  
  
“You’re in touch with Stefanie,” he guesses. The look on Gabriel’s face - caught and judgmental at the same time -tells him he’s right. Thinking on it later, Ansel doesn’t know why he looks caught. He had been Hans link to his sister for years, checking up on her. Why shouldn’t she have been checking up on him for Gabriel?  
  
“You don’t have to worry. I’m flattered she’d check up on me.”  
  
“Flattered.” Gabe’s voice was hard. It wasn’t a question, but a comment, full of the judgment and unspoken accompanying wish he could have been a different way than he was. Ansel feels his back muscles clench as he nods and decides he was going to take it as a question anyway.  
  
“Yes, flattered. I didn’t know you cared to be asking after me.”  
  
“You think-“ and there’s a flash of something hot in Gabriel’s voice as his hand comes up from the tea kettle,but he hisses and drops it back, “-you think, that I wouldn’t have been worried, that I wouldn’t have known you were at the center of a blaze that damn near destroyed a national landmark over a holiday?”   
  
The gruff voice was familiar; the strain of anger a living thing in his throat, visceral and taut. At least he recognizes him, now. Was he so hard to recognize himself? Ansel pauses, then dismisses the unpleasant thought. He didn’t wish to be recognized for the boy he was; he wasn’t him now, and he couldn’t be again. Better to guard against the unfufillable wishes. Those were meant for chick flicks and to pay for psychiatrist’s new Audis.  
  
Still, the concern and the anger take him aback briefly, and just like that no time had passed. They might as well be back under the shadow of a tree tossing a basketball and arguing about the party on Saturday in the same breath he compliments him on the slam dunk.  
  
“I didn’t say I didn’t think it,” Ansel said with similar low heat, “I said I didn’t know it. And I didn’t. Never fear, Steffie never gave away her spying.”  
  
“She wasn’t spying.” Gabriel mutters. Then he picks up the kettle and pours two tea-cups out, even though he should let it simmer, should let it cool off still in the tin. He’s forgotten to add sugar to it, but then, they’d never had much use for it.   
  
“She was telling me you were all right, and she was bragging, and she was staring at my neck -- but she wasn’t spying, brother, nothing so dramatic.”   
  
There’s a flash of grey in his eyes, mirrored in Ansel’s and for a moment they did look very much alike. They did have a lot to catch up on, Ansel reflects, just as his message accepting the meeting would say.  
  
“This isn’t a game you’re playing, with ... code names and invisible ink. It’s --,”  
  
“--flesh and blood,” Ansel cuts in, taking the tea cup from Gabriel and raising it to him as he murmurs sweet in a way Stefanie would be proud of, “Bon Appetite, mon frere.”  
  
   
  



	16. Prison Fantasies, Cara?

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> (You're at my mercy.)

The voice was ethereal -- silk as only their kind are, silk through the air that gravitates in ocean breezes and conjures up the image of puffy clouds, lazy days of palm trees and sand  -- seeming to float, somehow circling in the square eight-by-eight. She is all in white, wearing a loose little sundress and snowflakes on her pale cheeks. And yes, the gold loose strands recall captured sunlight as she lands light, like a cat, and leans back into cement. She still makes herself perfectly clear.  
  
"You're not dreaming, suesser."   
  
There a grin on Stef's face that makes the phrase 'devil's brat' come to mind, wide open with blunted teeth and pink tongue lingering in the air to savor his scent. Then she winks.    
  
"This time, anyway."  
  
He had his arms splayed on top of his eyes, laying in his bunk when he heard the sound of someone landing in his room. He would have been more panicked if he wasn't receiving visits from the flying trapeze Russian vampire, which judging by the click of the heels is what he had been expecting. If it would have been Olivier, he would have been escorted by the guards, if it were his mother they would have escorted -him- the visitors' room like a normal prisoner; nobody else had paid him a visit (in person, Daniella's cooking had been here twice).  
  
Letting his eyes open and his arm fall away, he turned his head and sat up suddenly, not having expected this blonde. His mouth broke open into a smile, that only lasted half a second before he was rolling his eyes, teasing that this wasn't some hazy dream (which, was actually a good thing to point out because he would have doubted for a moment there).  
  
"Imposing, assuming, high and mighty, no I guess I'm not dreaming," he smirked, standing up from his bed and walking the small distance between them to close it. Surprising himself more than anyone else by ignoring her mouth, well for the time being, he wrapped his arms around her in a hug, holding on to her with his dwindling strength.  
  
"Hi," he breathed into her hair as an exhale.  
  
"You forgot 'correct'," Stefanie offers, smile softening and mouth closing as he seems to blink to her side. Yet at the same time, he takes strictly human steps, luxurious as he's drawing her into a warm embrace--or maybe she pulls him, Stef couldn't tell.   
  
Her mouth presses against the sensitive crook of his neck, and just stays there as he squeezes her. The spicy-mouthwatering tang so close makes her nuzzle, nose brushing against his olive cheek. Quiet 'hi' echoing in her ear, Stefanie chuckles, arms slipping around his back to hold on.   
  
"Bongiorno." She tells him, grandly, as if she's proud to speak his language--and she is exceptionally, of the nine words she knows. "Did I wake you? I know it's past midnight..."  
  
He shakes his head briefly, unwilling to shake her off even for the briefest moment, even with her mouth so close to his neck. He didn't even flinch, though he did restrain a small chuckle as her nose brushed against the stubble on his cheeks and neck. How did that work? Why was -he- the one being tickled by it when- whatever, he had better things to focus on.  
  
"The witching hour, very appropriate," he says first, his words soft to prevent them from carrying, knowing she could hear the faintest whisper clearly now, and any sounds that were too loud would bring unwanted attention too quickly.  
  
Besides, it felt appropriate somehow to speak in a quiet tone. It was dark, she had smuggled in (how...even with vampire abilities to get into this cell, how were these women- right, priorities), it was a very secretive, occult vibe. Something out of a film noir movie.  
  
"Would it be bad taste to say I can sleep when I'm dead?"  
  
"I thought as much," Stefanie breathes out back through a little grin. Otherwise, she decided against breathing for the moment. Tony felt too good, and she just wants to luxuriate in smooth skin of his neck against her lips.   
  
Running the back of her hand across his neck at a speed that seemed to her a snail running, Stef was surprised by how rough his skin was. She had always known Tony as the implicit Italian, she realized, comfortable in his masculinity enough to moisturize, sit for pedicures, bathe in expensive oils. Prison hygiene was a step down...off the pyramid. She runs her hand again, perplexed and bemused. Grating and a little ticklish, her skin would surely have flushed if she was human and either way gave her something to hold on to. Damn, his hair grew quickly.   
  
...Oh, this probably meant new chest hair. Her lips pop up, smirk wide. Then she just laughs out at his question, shaking her hair  
all over his shoulder and pulls back to look at those gorgeous blue eyes.  
  
"To tell you the truth Tony, I wasn't planning much on sleeping."  
  
He smiles to hear her laughter, his face more relaxed than it had been in the past two weeks, hell maybe even more than that. His days pre-arrest weren't exactly the most stress-free, as he seemed to be jumping between scapegoats for his anger on a constant basis. Now he was just relieved, and happy, and that's it. There was no time for anything else really, or so he was telling himself.  
  
Taking her face in one hand as she pulls away, he strokes her cheek with the pad of his thumb, as his other hand plays with the strands of her blond hair. Now it was his turn to chuckle at her sentence and then smirks wide.  
  
"Have I mentioned how much I've missed you yet?"  
  
Instinctively turning her cheek into his hand, Stefanie's eyes lit up at the words and if she could have, she would have blushed. Lacking the blood to do so, she manages a little girl's giggle and licks her bottom lip before speaking.  
  
"Only through implication." Turning very slowly in his grasp so his back was towards the concrete, she continues with her own hand cupping his waist, "And I have to say I've never known you to be so coy, Snow."   
  
She steps them forward, but otherwise rests in his teasing grasp. Listening to his heart as she rests her free hand over it, she hums feeling it vibrating beneath her palm.   
  
"I've missed you too." Stefanie adds, almost an afterthought yet in the manner of pretending to be casual so you don't notice it's the thing that matters most.  
  
"I have my moments," he admitted with that coyness she accused him of not possessing, barely noticing that they've somehow switched positions in the past few seconds. He might be coy, but she wasn't entirely innocent of that either with her coquettish looks. Those looks, however, were not as prominent as the predatory hunger in her gaze. Were he not turned on, he might have been frightened. Tony would like to blame how easy he was on the weeks without any sexual activity at all (did they seriously think he was going to jack off in this dirty ass cell? was he a buffoon?), but the fact of the matter was he tended to abandon most reason when it came to her.  
  
He pulled her in closer as she stated missing him too and nodded, allowing himself a moment of assuming smugness (oh, only just a moment?), he grinned right against her lips as he whispered, "I know." Then he kissed her, finally, and it was more like taking in a breath of fresh air than the fact he was cutting air -off- to himself.  
  
Meeting her mouth to his, Stefanie was almost tentative. It seemed to her she was opening the proverbial floodgate, like if he let her taste him this way, why shouldn't she taste him another way... (they weren't that different, were they?) Kissing or er-- drinking his blood? Okay, fine.  
  
And yet with deciding that she seemed only to kiss him harder. Swallowing the air he exhales in her mouth, her thumb brushes across his chest, ruffling orange fabric between her fingers before grabbing tighter to hold on. Noticing he seemed to be breaking and remembering he needed to breathe abruptly, she cuts off, flush against him on the wall. Her grin was still wicked.  
  
"Were you drowning?" She teases, hand hard on his waist. "Waiting for me to get here? I'd have been here sooner to play, but you seem to be such a high-profile prisoner..." She pecks the side of his lips.   
  
"Must be taxing being so important."  
  
Damn air being a necessity, it really got in the way sometimes. You would think it'd be part of the superhuman perk package deal but no, he still needed air in his lungs. Rubbish, he wanted to say mockingly in that posh English he'd kept hearing from the Scooby doo gang, absolutely horrid rubbish. Tony really shouldn't need that much air, why couldn't his body prioritize?  
  
His hands travel down, one lingering at her neck, cupping almost all of it with the one hand, while the other held the small of her back in the flowy white sundress, never mind the fact it was almost February in Paris. He smirked against her lips knowing she had probably picked it out especially, ironically, which only made him appreciate it more.  
  
"Suffocating," he agreed, nodding still, licking his lips to pull her back to him again, giving her a peck of a kiss so he could keep answering, "torturous, this high-profile life of mine. I don't know how I do it. Abandoned, alooooone," he kissed her bottom lip, pulling it into his mouth to suck on it.  
  
"Almost died of old age, think I got a grey hair, orange washes me out- tooorture," he nodded and then kissed her again.  
  
The idea that Tony - Tony who had literally been hung up - was joking with the idea of torture makes Stefanie still. Just for a moment. Although the truth was she knows the fact of how stiff and still she could be still freaks Tony out a little, and she was naturally revolving in his grip. His strong, smooth, comforting grip. Reassured and enamored, she slides the hand on his chest down slowly and yet certain of what would be her destination if he wasn't gripping her so close.  
  
"Well." She asks in an undertone amused, "I'll just have to relax you then, won't I?"   
Humming into his mouth and then moving to kiss his cheek, she pushed him slightly into the wall. After kissing the side of his nose, and brushing it with hers again, she breathes into his mouth and said simply, "I agree though. Orange?"   
  
Her nails dug down the front of his jumpsuit now, ripping it in one pull off his shoulders. Stef giggles.   
  
"Not your color."  
  
"If this is you trying to relax me," he spoke amused and yet extremely content even as he's pushed against the wall further, her hands wandering and his unusually still for him save his fingertips digging into her skin greedily, bordering on desperately.  
  
She moved away from his mouth to place a not-so chaste kiss on his cheek (if anyone could do that it'd be this woman) and another near his nose while his mouth sought hers, leaning his head to find it. Once he did, their lips barely brushed against each other as she spoke.  
  
With a loud rrrrrip, loud to him anyway, Stefanie tugged the orange jumpsuit off his shoulders, a deep chuckle reverberating through his chest. He pulled his arms away from her now to pull them out of the sleeves, letting the obnoxious article fall at his waist, exposing his white undershirt (it was supposed to be white, but the laundry here was half broken and almost always full).  
  
"Like I said, if this is supposed to relax me, you're not doing a very good job," he grabbed her waist with both hands now, pulling her as close as he could, and placed another kiss on his lips.  
  
"Never thought you'd enjoy the prison fantasy, cara."  
  
Teasing another kiss out of his mouth as she ran her nails hard back up to shaped, sturdy shoulders, Stefanie let her eyes shut. Just inhaling, she enjoys the cinnamon scent of his blood singing to her and the feel of him clutching her waist like an inflatable red-white ring thrown to a drowning man. She basks in his taste and denies her want to chuckle. There were better options for girlish sounds.   
  
It hadn't been a fantasy of hers, actually, especially with Tony taken from her bed (slash pool recliner chair). He didn't deserve to be hung out to dry for folding to genetic desire as he fought to save lives. But...  
  
"The wrongfully, tragically persecuted clinging to me for sparse, hot moments just to feel alive?"  
  
...yeah, well, there was a certain fantasy in that. Besides, she could no longer envision a scenario she wouldn't want to jump Tony. (Though maybe she didn't want to pull at that thread.)  
  
She slides a hand under his tank strap, thumb nail digging above a rib and leans her head closer to his neck as she mutters, "I'm not the one imprisoned, suesser. You're at -my- mercy."  
  
"Why, amore, that sounds vaguely narcissistic," he teased about her explanation of what this 'prison' fantasy actually meant. He couldn't say anything else about that, especially couldn't deny it because it was a little more than half-true.  
  
His lips lift into a smirk, his usual defense against more things but most importantly hard truths. And the statement that he was entirely at her mercy was too true to take seriously. Better men had died pondering lesser truths.  
  
He licks his lips, sliding a hand over the curvature of her ass and then kissing her again before asking, "so what exactly do you intend to do to me?"  
  
Seriously, the way he said 'amore' just made her lock her knees to avoid the fact they were going weak at his unfair Italian. As always, she thinks, kissing his neck again as he smirks and then letting him take her mouth. As he pulls back to ask in that sexy voice a forward question, Stefanie realizes when her fingers were traversing his collarbone that her mouth was already back to his neck, eyes traveling up his pulse before she was speaking.  
  
"Not narcissistic, suesser...I love..." She takes a pause. "That you need me."   
  
Shutting her eyes for a moment, as she wasn't sure how he would react exactly--fully aware of the fact that two and a half weeks had gone by for her too. With an exhale of (unnecessary) breath, she opens her eyes to look in his again, kissing him again just once before speaking.  
  
"Because I need you. I've missed you. Your...taste."  
  
So narcissism wasn't the correct term here, she was right, but what was the right word? His mind seemed foggy, unused to this amount of thought, or maybe it just felt that way when the past two weeks have been a very standard, and boring, routine. The only challenge that presented himself to him was holding himself back from not killing anybody, and it was much easier than he would have thought, what with the fact that he was in here for Hulking out.  
  
Another difficult truth, one he couldn't deny or fight, but also not one he could smirk and scoff away either. If anything he just held on to her tighter, the hand at her waist rubbing circles on her sharp hipbone through the dress.  
  
More difficult, or maybe easier, to hear was the fact the feeling was mutual, or mutual enough. Her hunger for him was literal after all. He tried not to focus on the fact his neck was being paid more attention than anything else. After all, newborns had three things on their mind: feed, fuck, flay. And by flay, he meant kill, but he wanted another f word to keep with the alliteration.  
  
Stefanie had proved him wrong of that already, she also added 'fight' to the list, as well as other, non-f words. Nevertheless, it had been two weeks, almost three, and a certain someone had gone through her own withdrawal.   
  
"Like you said, dolcezza," he spoke right to her ear, dragging bottom lip across the shell of her ear, "I'm at your mercy."   
  
Stefanie felt a shiver slip up her spine as his fingers write on her hip, grip her to him, whispering something she would never have expected hot against her ear. Locking one hand on his shoulder, she twists her neck back and looks straight in his eyes. Those gorgeous, blue eyes.   
  
"You're serious." She states. She wants to be sure. There was no hesitance in his response, none in his eyes, but she still...with his history, was he just placating her? Her eyes shift red as she watches him, her other hand still slipping down his chest. Even as she keeps him still, even as she feels her mouth water and her gums start to ache, she says now, "That ... that means a lot to me, you know."  
  
And then she leans in, open mouth hovering over his pulse, enjoying running her tongue up and down, soothing the place she intends to mark.   
  
"Wouldn't joke about this," he replied even though her former statement hadn't been a question. What was probably the most unbelievable, as in not able to be believed instead of extraordinary, was the fact that there existed anything in this world that he couldn't joke about. It took some heavy skill, he did have to admit that.  
  
Tony nods once, further giving her permission in a less vocal and therefore much safer way. Her eyes change as she looks at him, showing the true predator that always lurked underneath, the veins around her eyes starting to become more and more pronounced. His breath caught in his throat having expected fangs to meet his flesh, not warm tongue. Eyes closing shut slowly as he enjoys it, Tony doesn't flinch, just prepares and waits.  
  
As far as she knew, there was only one other thing Tony refused to joke about, and that was the thing they wouldn't talk about either. Ever. And as she hears the hitch in his throat as she tightens her hold on his chest and shoulder, before rubbing her thumb back and forth. Her tongue digs into the crook, tasting his pulse and then gracing the tips of her teeth back and forth too, still just taking her time.  
  
Something felt...right, something that had felt so wrong with the guys in the club. Her hand slips up into his hair, and she thinks about that nod, the fact he seemed to be leaning closer to her, holding on tighter and it makes her smile before she finally sinks her teeth in, slow.   
  
Taking long, drawling sips in bliss, she presses him harder into her, revolving in his grasp and then slips right back out again, kissing him before she realized his blood was still painting her lips red when they met his.   
  
She pulls back an inch, licking his lips in a long, slow flick and mumbles out, "so much better than the others."  
  
The sharp point of her fangs was a cool contrast to her wet tongue, and it served to send a different kind of shiver down his spine as he waited. The sting as the fangs broke skin as they plunged into his neck was sharper than he remembered, his eyes snapping open instead of squeezing further shut.  
  
He exhaled in a drawn out breath, biting on his bottom lip as he grew adjusted to it, his neck pulsing hard where she was drinking from him. The sucking was pleasant enough Tony had found the first time he had offered while in his...right mind. It was the blood rushing faster than normal to leave his veins that was awkward, and in a way that itself wasn't entirely unfamiliar.  
  
He held her close even as his limbs fought to relax, to become limp, but Tony's prerogative was to always remain alert, that only became more true while incarcerated, and now with Stef taking from his life-force to feed hers.  
  
The stinging at his neck returned, and it was that first that let him know she had backed away from his neck, second was when her lips met his again. Unsure of his own self-control after nearly three weeks without a drop of blood, he was hesitant to even lick his own bloodstain off his lips. Thankfully, Stefanie seemed to realize the potential problem and licked them for him.  
  
Unsurprised and unbothered that she had drank from others, so long as they weren't dead now, Tony still felt appeased to hear he was somehow tastier. Well, of course, look at him.  
  
"There's only one Antonio D'Grey, mia cara," he moved a strand of her hair away from her face, lest it somehow get stained with the blood on her lips, "cheap imitations pale in comparison." He wondered if she noticed as he stroked her face again, his thumb tracing the line of her jaw and neck, that he wasn't entirely talking about himself anymore.   
  
Stefanie let's out a low giggle at his first remark through a mouth round and tilts her neck back in the haze of pleasure and lust. Her skin was warming to his touch, her breaths stirred and eyes revolving backwards as she murmurs and nods--some part of her knows she looks like she's having an orgasm, but goddammit, it is how it feels. There was just something...different about his blood, rushing through her veins and keeping her alive. Something primal and hot in her at the thought she would be dead if not for Tony. And he couldn't live that way either. He proved that already in a dank storage facility; he needed to save her, it was compulsory and imperative.  
  
Reeling in his scent and despite the shorter feeding time somehow sated better than she'd been in days, her neck tilts forward and eyes flutter open as she looks at him again, softer.  
  
"I didn't even know I was looking for you," she says and tells herself she means at that D'Grey-owned-bar only. "I went out, I was starving, and then your brother shows up..." She chuckles as for some reason it's important to her she add as her hand slips down his shirt and crumples it, intending on ripping it off, "Uninvited."  
  
God, his skin was warm and his hands were holding her so tight she thinks his nails might have broken skin and imbedded in her lower back. It distracts her from the story, and so she forgets Tony was probably wondering for them: basic facts like if the boys were alive or if Olivier had to stop her or if he'd even wanted to.  
  
"And afterwards he asked if I meant for them to look like you. But it wasn't enough," Stef almost whines that, eyes blinking slowly and pushing on her toes to lean down and press a softer kiss to his wound. "Not nearly.." another long, slow, lick, "enough." And she kisses the spot again, looks back in his eyes as it's his turn evidently to caress her neck and she murmurs almost teasing,   
  
"Your turn. What were you talking about?"  
  
Who ever thought that eating could give a person that much pleasure? Her enjoyment was his enjoyment here, though obviously not as much. He realized why some would willingly subject to this, but if it weren't Stefanie, he wouldn't. Guess he just wasn't freaky enough.  
  
Surprised that his joke was actually accurate, that she had looked for men that looked similar to him, he found himself chuckling after the initial surprise. He'd also have to remember to thank his brother for being her unwelcomed chaperone. Better than Stefanie hanging around her maker, which Tony worried she might have whilst he was in here.  
  
His neck tilted again as she leaned back in, the spot where she bit him was tender and pulsing still. A small hum left his mouth without opening it; another shiver ran down his spine as her tongue licked the two small puncture wounds.  
  
"You expect me to be coherent enough now?," Tony murmured, a small smile on his lips as he thought that if he was coherent enough to use the word coherent, then he was good.  
  
"I'm obviously under the influence, I don't mean anything."  
  
With another long, slow lick Stefanie gracefully let the tip of her tongue prod around the wounds with gentle pressure, luxuriating the lingering droplets as much as providing counterpoints to offset the sting. At least, she'd tried. Hurting him was the last thing she wanted to do. You know, except for the vampire part of her that protests her retreat from his neck and wants to rip his head off and skin to shreds until she's devoured him--apart from that, the last thing she wants is hurting him.  
  
The tease of a question makes her smirk, but also makes her realize: his turn.   
  
"Under the influence?"   
  
In a single motion, she pulls him into her arms, seals her lips over his and whips them to his bed, which creaks alarmingly at their landing. Damn. They would probably break it. One of her hands lands holding his over his head, her knees dig into his sides as she straddles his chest in a balloon of her sun dress and leans forward, trailing her flat palm down his chest as she speaks again.  
  
"Would you believe," she hovers over his lips, "I wanted to be a good one. Influence." She kisses him once, open mouthed as she breathes out, "Just wanted to be...here. With you."  
  
Oh that trick with her tongue would be considered foul play in some countries. A small hiss left his mouth before he sighed, unsure whether or not he liked it or not.  
  
Before he could decide, they were moving again. Stefanie pulled and then pushed him at supernatural speed, causing them to crash onto the bed. He winced now at the loud creak, surprised and thankful they hadn't broken it because that noise would have alerted the guards for sure.  
  
As he looked up at Stefanie, however, as her hair cascaded down in front of her shoulders, straddling his chest and holding his hand, Tony couldn't find it in himself to particularly care.  
  
"You failed splendidly," he teased, using his free hand to grip a thigh. He kissed her again, hungry for her in every way possible and he was beginning to get 'quite cross' that even now she denied him.  
  
"You're a horrible influence, doing horrible things to me," he laces his fingers with hers and nips her bottom lip with her teeth.   
  
For the first time since she'd gotten there, Tony glanced away from her. It was brief. A quick shot of his gaze to the bars, the metal cell 'door', and then back--dazed and pupils dilated as if she was narcotic, his personal drug. She knew why; he was concerned they'd be found, concerned she'd be thrown out and he'd be punished. Yet Stefanie thinks if a guard did come to the door, she'd snap his neck just for the interruption. Drinking them dry, she hallucinates with a quiet whisper as their fingers lace, just because they made Tony spare a thought for something besides her. How dare they make him glance away.   
  
Keening as her skirt drags up her thigh, she nods against him. Ah well. Worse things to fail at. Having him under her, hand exploring and gripping and squeezing makes the blood he gave her in offering sing as it sweeps through her veins. Then he nips, and she chuckles sweetly. The gold cross around her neck had fallen to dangle over his chest, strike as she presses in to him.   
  
"And here I thought you were incorruptible, Tony." She leans back on his chest, sits straight and cocks her head to regard him as a cat might. One hand on his neck prevents him from rising. Thumb cradling his jaw, as if precious to behold, she whispers.  
  
"I've missed that. I've missed that you're righteous enough to do penance. Tell me what you've missed about me. Then..." She slides her hips down a tad, glancing down, and then looks up to finish the sentence with a smirk, slow and purposefully down on his hips, then up, then across, like she was drawing the symbol of Christ,"...well, do you really need me to spell it out?"  
  
 "I am still a man of this world and therefore as corruptible as the next," he grinned briefly at his small joke said in tease when in fact it was one of the truest statements he's said in a long time and not only of his own nature but of mankind in general. Of course, this would be around the time Stef would cooly reply yes, but she is not a man. Then he'd being up Eve, then she'd argue that was no corruption, it was enlightenment, and they would go on.  
  
As he watched her sit up, and kept him from doing the same, he realized that was an answer to her question. Arguing with her, he had missed that. Her teasing him, however? Not so much. He grumbles out an exhale, his hips lifting instinctively before he glared up at her.  
  
"No, keep your speak-n-spell away," he huffed, slapping her thigh once with an impish grin before he started, "I have missed your skin...your lips...the smell of coconuts in your hair, your devilish tongue," he wiggled his eyebrows at that, smirking briefly before his expression softened.  
  
"I miss your piano-playing. Music is the one thing of yours that I could never bear interrupting. I would sit at the top of the stairs and listen whenever you did. And I miss the way you flip your hair everytime you get indignant." He smirked, adding, "it's cute."  
  
Such a man. As he slaps her thigh she hitches her hips up, free hand leaving his wrist to flip her hand back through her hair, whip it over her shoulder. Ironic she did. She'll soften noticeably when he brings it up later. Even blushing, it's in pleasure of the fact her skin is red because of him twice over; what he said, and the fact he gave her freely the blood to blush with.   
  
Brushing down his throat in bemusement as he groans under her thumb. The imps grin makes her hips grind down a little in pleasure, half a reward. He starts with describing physical appearance, of course, though she shakes her hair forward and cants down whiffs of the described coconuts. Abruptly softening as he continues, she stills.  
  
"I--" She blinks, surprised enough she feels breath catch in her throat again. Leaning slightly down, she frees his hand and brings hers down to join the other, cradling his neck and face. Her smile flicks and she nods.  
  
"I didn't know you listened to that." She says quietly, but (and it was sad how surprising this was) mostly just...happily. "Did I ever tell you I taught it? In Anif...to pay for university." She picks his hand up to kiss his palm, then his pulse, slowly lacing their fingers together again as she continues to speak.  
  
"As I missed that twelve-year-old's smirk. You look like Puck." Her lips pop apart with a playful smack. Winking at him and kissing his pulse again, she adds, "And your many, many...many, varied, unfairly Italian nicknames."   
  
As she speaks, she pulled his shirt up, leaning back to lift him up and rip it over his head. When she meets her eyes to his again, she has one hand settled on the juncture of his legs. The other stays on his neck again, keeping him down.  
  
"I missed you in bed with me." She adds, teasing gently, "Your bed is much more comfortable." She doesn't mention, won't, that she's still sleeping in it. "And has personality too-at least your ceiling does. All multicolored, defiant, a little crazy and rebellious. Like you." She prods that gorgeous bare chest, teeth toying with her own bottom lip.   
  
"And the random bursts of singing you'd just...pop out with. Of every genre, like you gave everything a...fair shake. But like you said." She leans down to whisper, kissing him just briefly, "I do love good music."  
  
  



	17. Love Me, After All?

By the mere fact that this visit wasn't taking place in his cell but instead in a common area with a glass and a phone separating criminals and visitors, Tony could rule out who it wasn't.  
  
It wasn't his brother, because he liked to remind the prisoner guards and the warden that yes, his money -could- get him anywhere he wanted including Tony's cell. It certainly wasn't Briana, seeing as her visitor's pass was unrestricted and unknown. It wasn't Stefanie because she was taking flying vampire trapeze lessons from Briana. It could be his mother again, or...  
  
"Well, well, well," he sat on the chair, waiting for the officer to take off his cuffs before he picked up the telephone connected to the other side and tried not to think of how often the receivers were cleaned after so many other inmates had used it as he spoke into it,  
  
"Look who loves me after all."  
  
Tapping her heel against the floor, Daniella felt like she was the one on display with all the guards and harsh lights -- but maybe that was just because she had a hard time fixing her hair this morning. Bad hair day!? All right, maybe she was nervous. And mad that they stole the cookie she'd wanted to give Tony.   
  
When he appeared on the other side of the little window, she feels an instant wave of relief and then naturally a smirk appear at his words.   
  
The receiver was balanced on her shoulder as she replies, "Babe, you know I always save the best for last. And just so you know, Henrick stole your cookie."  
  
Meaning herself, she left herself to visit last. Oh Dani. He almost chuckled but then remembered he was supposed to be angry, at the very least irked, that up until now she had only sent cookies. And a batch of them with his mother! His absentee mother visited Tony before Daniella did.  
  
"They weren't that good anyways," he lied, sniffing and looking properly indignant, "tasted like excuses, hesitation, and doubt. Like a morning after."  
  
"I have it on good authority that you turned the morning after into a second round."   
  
Daniella winks as Tony huffs, but in seriousness she folds her arms over the little counter and wraps her free hand over the phone to try and keep the pair of them private.  
  
"I miss you." She said, smile softer, "Even if you are insulting my cookies. Or complimenting me by saying I could cook those emotions into a cookie, but."   
  
"Three out of five times," he waves this off, a little smirk creeping up on his face as he moves closer to the glass despite himself. Truthfully, he was too happy to see her to be mad for too long.  
  
"I miss you too," he smiled and then kissed the tip of his fingers and pressed them against the pane of the glass.  
  
"Life's not the same without my daily dose of Dani."  
  
Brightening as she kisses her fingers back too and presses them to the window too over his with a giggle, she feels herself shuffling her feet and letting them free again. She wasn't sure when she'd caught the heels around it anyway.  
  
"Or mine of endearing, Tonio," she says with a similar smirk. "My boss was a horrible person and kept scheduling meetings during visitor hours."   
  
She wrinkled her nose up and stuck her tongue out.   
  
"So who's this Briana chick anyways, trying to move in on us?"  
  
Well, he wasn't sure which one was worse 'endearing' or 'kitten'. Both of those words didn't belong to someone who was being held prisoner and yet somehow those were the adjectives of late. Except for Tiny who had taken to calling him 'Ace'. Now see, -that- was a prison nickname. Tony was almost proud.  
  
"Damn boss," he waved his fist, accepting the reason even if he guessed it wasn't entirely truthful.  
  
"She's my brother's best friend five-eva," at least by Olivier's standings, "she likes me and calls me kitten. I occasionally purr on her lap." The last one was mostly a joke.  
  
"Mmm," she hums as though  she's waiting and considering the evidence heavily as if she's trying to determine whether or not she's okay with this new addition.   
  
"Alllright, well if she makes you 'purr'," and he wonders why she calls him endearing, "I guess I'm okay with that. But I'm watching her. Just so you know."  
  
She drops her hand again from the window, turning it around so he could see she was wearing the amethyst ring he gave her. Then she twists back and says lighter, looking over him, "You look good though. How are you making orange work, babe?"  
  
"I'm glad you approve," he grinned and then nodded importantly before saluting her, "yes ma'am. Duly noted." His smirk turned softer, fading into a smile as he saw she was wearing the ring he gave her for Christmas. He liked it, so he put a ring on it. It was a joke he'd already made but one that amused him so much he thought it deserved to be said (er, in his mind) twice.  
  
"Are you kidding? I hate orange," he pouted, "and I'm losing tone, look," he held the phone with his neck while he pushed up the short sleeves even more and then flexed his arm.  
  
"See? And not only is my face a mess but also," he tilted his head up and passed a hand over the hairs coming in coarse under his chin, "neck beard! And look at my cuticles." He pressed his hand against the glass so she could see.  
  
"And my legs are dry and crackly. When I get out, you and me, full day spa trip."  
  
Laughing (as if she can really see clearly through that fogging glass as he shows her the cuticle bed), she holds her hand up as if in surrender before she nods.  
  
"Full spa-day, absolutely, but babe, you're Italian. I expected like a full on Santa Claus beard by now." She waves her hand over her face, relaxing further as she demonstrated, "Really, you're looking quite good, Andy. I'll send a harmonica next time...imagine Sexy Back on a harmonica."  
  
Her lips flick up as she thinks, he probably doesn't have to imagine but hey, one doesn't reference Shawshank without including the harmonica. Music's inside, just like salvation.   
  
"I, on the other hand, am having a terrible hair day." She pauses, saying a teeny bit quieter and turning her lips towards the phone as she imagines it would help him hear.  
  
"Imagine that seems kind of like a small problem though." It was soft.  
  
Too true. He wasn't doing his Italian roots justice, and this time he didn't mean the scalp of his hair, though they were probably suffering too. Oh the humanity!   
  
"Shawshank, nice! Very solid," he nodded his head in appreciation and approval. This is why they were BFFs, "That would be totally awesome! I'd have to learn how to play, but come on, it's the harmonica, how hard could it be?"  
Wri: cue Nadia's angry huff and saying 'losing more and more points with me every day, Tony'  
"Pass it off as just've-been-fucked hair! Voila, problem solved, you were in prison for a conjugal visit." Tony smirked and winked, chuckling afterwards.  
  
"Ah well," he shrugged, trying to dismiss her softer tone laced with concern over what he might be going through in here, "it's called prison for a reason. Under the circumstances though, I don't think I'm doing so bad."  
  
"You'd be surprised," Daniella nods with an important sounding 'oh hey wait a minute' to her voice behind it and then grinning anyways. She has no idea, she's never tried, but she didn't tend to have musical talent.   
  
"I'm kind of lacking in that department. Unless you mean playing with my body, in which case I'm a veritable fiddle. My fingers and mouth do make good instruments, I'll grant."  
  
And it seemed that Tony was going to just continue in that vein anyway, which Daniella thought was probably a good idea. Otherwise he was just going to start thinking she had only come to bum him out or something. Which she did miss talking to him seriously, but it...was kind of difficult when they were surrounded by guards.  
  
"Ah, see now I understand the state of Stef's hair." She smirked once. "But no...no I don't think so but come on, baby, I was expecting thrilling tales of you against the warden and people with ironic nicknames. Speaking of which, what's yours? Or are you the boss?"  
  
Not likely. That was Oli's purview.   
  
"Oh I bet you make beautiful music, cara," he mused, when truthfully Tony didn't know how to play an instrument either. His skill lay in being able to memorize countless of seemingly unimportant fact like movie quotes and Justin Timberlake song lyrics. (As if JT could ever be unimportant.)  
  
"Nope," he shook his head, "I've been on my best behavior. Not instigating anything or finishing anything. I have been robbing them blind with my expert card playing. Tiny calls me 'Ace'." He gives Dani a thumbs up, nodding his head.  
  
"I could probably take this prison in a week. Never been much for power though."  
  
Aha! Laughing again (apparently too loud for the guard in the corner giving her a dirty look, she mouths 'sorry' over her shoulder), she nods.   
  
"Ace, that's a good one. Lucky streak then, or rather...you're a skilled player, oui sweetie."   
  
Bemused, she tilts her head surprised by the way he phrased it. Oh, he could take it if he wants it...ha, there was no denying that both brothers had some of the arrogance that came with the D'Grey name in them. Nor their skill, obviously.  
  
Her smirk lifts and she nods.  
  
"Suppose not. Well, and you won't be staying long. Finish what, though?" Her voice drops a bit, curious beside herself.   
  
"Luck ain't got nothing to do with it," he nodded before relenting in a quieter voice, "ten percent luck at the very most. Very most!"  
  
Daniella was right, one way or another, he wasn't staying in this prison for long. He would either get acquitted at the trial, or he would be broken out in all spectacular fashion if the verdict came out guilty. Obviously, Tony was hoping for the former though the latter would not surprise him, nor would it also be unfair.  
  
"Just saying, I'm neither starting trouble nor finishing it. Been a couple fights, obviously, this guy Barry trying to rile me up but nope, cool as a cucumber right here."  
  
"Very most." Daniella agreed, finding it easy to lie when Tonio'd never had much luck in his life. Ten percent sounds a good amount. Olivier had turned their shared last name to as much of an advantage as such a dirty thing could be worth, but as Tony said, he'd never been much for power.  
  
Smirking wider as he clarifies, she offers first, "Aw, I'm proud of you honey, that takes serious skill." It did. Especially considering how many people in here probably had it out for his brother. Speaking of which...  
  
She arches an eyebrow and asks, "Whose Barry?"   
  
"Aw, shucks," he faked bashfulness and modesty, waving a hand in front of his face, "you'll make me blush." Definitely took a lot to make him blush nowadays. He was absent shame (except for the fact he wasn't but details).   
  
"Cocky loudmouthed piece of shit. Also, he's almost certifiably insane. Not my biggest fan."  
  
Ah. With a hand raise she nods, flicking over the corner of her mouth as she agrees and answers easily, "Yeah all right I understand, I think."  
  
Either an old D'Grey enemy or Tony's once slept with his girl (or rather both maybe) -- but both, he didn't want to talk about it.  
  
"You know, contrary to what you probably believe, I kind of like that you're content to lie low, Tonio."   
  
That was news. Here when everyone and their mother  thought he was out of his mind for taking this as calmly as possible. Truthfully, he thought this was probably the most mature he had ever behaved in his life. It was actually a little sad when you thought about it. It was one 'mommy doesn't love me' away from earning an 'awww, Tonio'.  
  
"Good behavior looks good at trial. But notorious bad boy lover Dani? Glad that I haven't shanked someone and proven worthy?" He clicks this tongue, shaking his head as much as the cord of the phone let him.  
  
Sure it did. Which reminded her she was coming to visit him nigh on the eve of the trial starting. Maybe instead of a harmonica she could ask Stefanie to bring him a comb.   
  
"The devilish handsome thing is gonna work for you too," she says first as she tilts her head. Not that anyone in that jury was going to look at him and see anyone but his brother, but Tony had a talent at making people like him if he got the opportunity. She was certainly trying to give him that.  
  
"Bad boy lover?" Daniella clucks her tongue the same way he does and shakes her head a half inch, holding on to the phone a little tighter.  
  
"Make me sound like I've got all these guys...just the one now, Tony." She exhales with a little smirk. "Besides, shanking someone doesn't prove anything but that you've given up in my mind. Keeping calm's a lot tougher. Especially you."   
  
"Fingers crossed!" He held up his left hand and demonstrated, though he was certainly hoping his amazing good looks wouldn't actually sway a jury, but knew better than to really think that. Everything from how he looked, what he dressed like, and how he sat would make a jury judge him before the trial even really started.  
  
"You know, humans aren't supposed to be monogamous," he teased briefly because honestly, good. No one messed around on his brother, even if sometimes he did deserve a little hurt, just a little.  
  
"You make me sound like I'm a toddler with an anger management problem," he grinned wickedly, "oh wait."   
  
She chuckles, eyebrows raising. Far cry from his warning her a few months back (was it months already?!) what he would do to her if she hurt his brother--but she thought mentioning that now was in poor taste. So instead she teases back, "Your brother's quite proud of the fact he's not human."   
  
And winks. Wait, now hold on, was that in poor taste too? Considering the 'not human' part was what led to him landed in the cell?  
  
At 'oh wait', after he called her out on her loving bad boys, her smirk widens like a jungle cat again anyways as she returns, "Do I? How deeply we wound each other with the truth."  
  
"Yeah he thinks he's a regular Kal'El," Tony snorted and then laughed as he realized the contradiction in his sentence. A regular superman? Please. Besides, Olivier wasn't Superman, he was Lex Luthor. Not mad scientist Lex Luthor, President of the United States Lex Luthor, before he blamed a mind controlled clone from an alternate universe.  
  
"The truth rarely does much else," he commented, nodding, "but we're tough people, we can handle the truth."  
  
"If he dons a cape, it'll be me flying out the door, just throwing that out there." Daniella rubs her lips as she grins, eying the guard that had thrown her a dirty look before. Blowing him a kiss, she turns back and leans closer.   
  
"Thankfully, I don't think he's under any illusions that he's a hero. Probably quote Sherlock and say how they don't exist."   
  
Daniella disagreed, but she's not sure how obvious that is. After all, she's sitting in a jail cell visiting her mobster boyfriend's brother, whom she knew she loves dearly for all the complications that might bring. Her father had been her boyfriend's father's right hand man for all their crimes, her mother--well, who rightly knew? She'd been her own hero since she could convince a judge to let her do so, but why should that mean they don't exist? Heroism was in the eye of the beholder as much as anything else and she...might be more comfortable in the darkness, where she could clearly what's right in front of her but believes in the goodness of people at their core. How could she not, when she sees how terrible people struggle for redemption no matter their crime? Daddy had been the first bad boy she ever loved.  
  
Blinking as she nods absently in agreement, her smile's softer again.  
  
"That we do. I'd say we do more than that actually. I think we shape the truth, Tony.  We're too smart for anything else."  
  
"Heroes -obviously- exist," he sighed, muttering 'oh fratello' under his breath before laying back against the chair, trying not to think of the clock on the wall beside him. He might be in the middle of his longest withdrawal yet but he could still hear the ticking of the analog clock.  
  
"You better than me. I'm not -that- smart, cara."  
  
Her smile was already soft; now it becomes honest as he grumbles indignantion at his brother mid agreement with her. Or maybe it had been too long since she heard Tony grumble about his 'fratello' and it was with that reminder of how she'd missed him that she just felt abrubtly warm.  
  
Startled by the last words, her hand falls back from the phone.  
  
"Well, maybe smart's not the right word then. Because, Tonio I haven't heard anyone spin words as well as me until I met you. You and the judge in a room and I bet you could talk your way out of this yourself."   
  
"I don't spin words I...sculpt them. I paint them. I let them flow out and shape reality. Like play-doh I mold them into art. But spinning words? I am unfamiliar to such a concept. Nay, I am an artiste, not a spinner." He nods importantly again and then just shrugs, knowing he had just made her point.  
  
"Your confidence in me us inspiring though, I feel moved and flattered."  
  
Bemused little smirk widening as he makes her point and knows he does (she's sure), Daniella nods thoughtfully and posits, "Ah see, and all artiste's have tantrums."  
  
Her words take on a style as if she is curator at the Louvre's imposing patishe. Her nail crooks towards him. It's not rude to point if you're indicating agreement.  
  
"You're not a toddler, you're eccentric, Caeser. It's a necessity for genius -- is it any wonder I have confidence?"  
  
"I prefer to call them impromptu passionate displays of frustration and desperation," Tony nodded with a wide grin, realizing that oh yeah, he was going to use that term more often now. It was much better than tantrum, no contest, and infinitely superior to hissy fit. A man couldn't throw a tantrum but a passionate display of emotion? That was icing.  
  
"Oh stop it you!" He waved his hand again and after a pause, he leaned forward, holding his chin in his palm, his nose almost pressed to the glass, "No, keep going."  
  
Exhibit B, she wants to say, but recognizing a minute later how insane it would be to continue to parody a courtroom when he would be in there.  
  
"Keep going?" Daniella was about to laugh his words off, when he leaned in and pressed his nose to the window. Oh, Merlin.  
  
"Well, right now I am a little concerned for your health breathing whatever dirt is on that window but you know apart from that."   
  
Her hand comes back up to hold the phone to her ear and says lightly, "Let's see. You're accent could make anyone love you, especially in your native language. You have insane skills of memory when it comes to 80s movies factoids. An excellent tenor voice and your masculinity isn't threatened whether you're asking me to the spa or wearing a feather boa."  
  
As was he, honestly, but he couldn't back away now. His nose stayed pressed up against that glass, big goofy grin on his face because, so help him, the show must go on! Or some other less eccentric reason- no, there was no other for him to press his face up against the glass. Well, no reason that wasn't rated explicit.  
  
"You sure know how to flatter a guy, Dani, thank you very much," he blew another kiss, beaming again but eventually had to pull away before too much dust traveled up his nostrils. Not to abide by stereotypes but the French really weren't sticklers for personal hygiene and no amount of perfume was going to make this room okay.  
  
"Hey, serious question," he pursed his lips, "how's Olive Oil doing? Really?"  
  
Was that all flattering? She had tried, sure, but she'd been teasing him just as much. The image of Antonio D'Grey in a feather boa was as stuck in her mind as finding him in the village with blood on his mouth and red pupils for eyes but she wasn't going to dwell on that one. Well, this time.  
  
Concern flashes across her face as he coughs, so maybe that was why she found it hard to keep from showing when he asked about his brother. Chewing on the corner of her lip she looks away, then meets his gaze and stalls for clarification.  
  
"How do you mean?"  
  
"I mean, he's not going to tell or show -me- how my getting arrested is affecting him because he thinks I have enough guilt," ha, his capacity for holding guilt was much more than anyone expected! Never fear, Tony could always accommodate more. It's a Catholic's life for him.  
  
"I'm also aware I'm presenting a certain problem with him getting me out of here," seeing as Tony prohibited any murder of the witness and Detective Dale. Kind puts a damper on trying not to get this to trial.  
  
"So on a scale of Dumbledore to the Hulk, how likely is he to snap?"  
  
"A certain problem?" Daniella's voice turned keen in poorly hidden curiosity. Whatever Tony meant, Olivier hadn't shared, which was downright not surprising and inconvenient to say the least. And something told her this wasn't the same kind of case that she'd get to ask him how his father died and be told just 'so she doesn't think worse of Oli'. For two people utterly committed to bettering Olivier D'Grey, they should share better, she thinks.   
  
Barely suppressing a giggle at the scale presented, she flutters her eyes up to the ceiling humming 'mmm' aloud and then, with a lip smack, "Tennant's doctor. With the Sycorax, not Time Lord Victorious. Yet."  
  
Actually, the more she thought about it, the more she likes that analogy. No second chances, because that's the kind of man he is. Now could she convince him not to turn into Harriet Jones, though? Her teeth gnaw into her lip again.  
  
"Yes ma'am," he nodded, though he didn't elaborate for certain reasons and they were guard-shaped. Still, it was curious Olivier hadn't shared with Dani. Tony thought he would have gone straight to his girlfriend to complain about how impossible and difficult Tony was. Trouble in paradise? Tony hoped not.  
  
"That's disconcerting," Tony pursed his lips together and then exhaled, rubbing at his nose and then slapping the hand on his thigh.  
  
"Great episode though."   
  
"Definitely a great episode." Daniella was quick to agree as her eyes narrow with veiled scrutiny. He probably couldn't pick that up through this glass, dammit. Also, ha! Haha. Disconcerting. Yes, a bit.   
  
A smirk appears on her lips as she offers, "Hey, you know what's funny?" Very little that has to do with prison and Tony in one or Olivier hulking out?   
  
"I bet we sound like we're talking in code. Can you imagine the federal officers watching the Christmas Invasion episode tonight for clues?"   
  
"Shhh!" He pretended to chide her, looking around at the guards with a sudden fear and then turned back to Dani with a smirk on his face and winked. He really had too much fun that one was allowed to have in prison. Thankfully, if it was a crime, he was already in the perfect place.  
  
"Indubitably, after all Jack and Rose have eloped and left John Smith with the watch but no time," he shook his head as if he was lamenting someone. Actually, he rather shipped Jack and Rose. Then again Jack could be shipped with the universe, and he was.  
  
"Indubitably." Daniella laughs, echoing and then shushing herself, quickly forcing a faux sadness of lament as well. Not that what he said makes any sense in the context of the show but she assumes that's the point. At least, she rather hoped he wasn't saying he was like John Smith to Stef's Rose...ahem, she was over thinking this. (Yet were parallel worlds so different than their forced potential separation? She doesn't see how.)  
  
Straightening to return to the serious topic, after a quick glance at the guards herself she offers, "He's just been...stubborn. And maybe a little quieter than usual, oscillating between hot and cold tempers. Mostly he just misses you. We both do."  
  
Yes, he supposed someone duping his brother was enough to have him a little surly. But Tony had learned that the quieter his brother was, the worse off his intending victim would be. Whoever that was in this scenario, Godspeed. Tony was doing everything he could to make sure Oli didn't go all Soprano on this fucker but a glitch now would be disastrous.  
  
"Well I don't miss either of you at all, of course not," he smiled, his expression wholly unguarded, not even trying to hide how preposterous that statement was.  
  
"Aside from missing me and a boss with the worst timing in the world, how have you been?"  
  
"Obviously not." Daniella scoffed as if in agreement of the utterly absurd, but can tell she's done nothing more than worry Tony further about his brother. Damnit, the trouble was she couldn't lie here anyway: that was disrespectful to Tony and their tight brother bond (and their friendship). Plus, he wouldn't believe her.   
  
She smiles a bit at the question (honestly, Tonio has to be one of the most selfless people she's ever met, or at least selfless hybrids although granted there are only two of them--she was off topic). Still, he asks about her when he's in prison? The least she could do was give him better news than the wordless brooding (sexily) brother he had replaced Olivier with when he went in here.  
  
"I'm all right." She says, smile small. "My sister's been accepted to university. I'm drowning in work and thinking about bribing my boss to let me hire someone to lighten the load so I can have less terrible timing. Trouble is now I've gone and taken sexual favors off my menu, how am I supposed to bribe her!?"  
  
Yup, she said her. She was teasing (kind of); Tony deserved better imagery to dwell on, all right?!  
  
"Yay, go Lila!" He puts a hand to his mouth and mocks what would normally be a thunderous cheer but seeing as how he had to kept quiet, it was barely more than a whisper. Leave it to Tony to be able to shout a whisper. His prowess was truly something to be desired.  
  
"Wait, you can't take sexual favors off the- never! That is unacceptable, Daniella Faye, you have to march into your boss's office and rectify this situation. Preferably in an overcoat hiding lacy French lingerie. Something very garterific."  
  
"Well, that's going to be easy." Daniella wasn't even lying when she adds, "What do you think I'm wearing under here, babe?"  
  
She winks again, and scoots in the seat a little to wiggle her shirt down and the top button open. That was as far as she got before a shout from the guard and she sighs, sliding a photograph out from the bra instead and waiting until the guard's accepted her 'so sorry' until he's gone, to flash it at Tony. It was, naturally, a naked photograph of Stefanie -- but she knew he was free to imagine all manner of other reasons she'd be carrying that.  
  
Oh, what a tease. He supposed he only has himself to blame for it, he walked straight into it after all, but then again she led him there the naughty devil. Sexual favors for her female boss? How else was he supposed to react to that?  
  
Head tilting curiously as she slips a photograph out instead of...anything else, he hums in appreciation as he sees what it is. Hmm, hmm, hmm. And pray tell what exactly was Dani doing with that- no, he didn't want to be told. His imagination was far better with these things than the truth.  
  
Sighing wistfully, he licked his lips and then pouted suddenly, "I want to go hooooome. Danii! You're so unfair!"  
  
Sighing with Tony, she tries not to think about the fact that -- well, yes, that was the difficulty associated with teasing him such as this. Maybe she could call Stef and make sure she showed up to visit after she left. Truthfully, Daniella was hesitant to do that. Why? Oh, just call her up, ask her to break the law and potentially (if caught) use her vampire abilities to get out - putting herself and Tony in danger...  
  
(But Danii, he called you a teaaaseee...) She almost arches an eyebrow to say 'tough', but considering she doesn't speak their eyebrow communication language, she'd probably find out she actually came on to him instead. Pay no attention to her literally coming on to him before.  
  
"I want you home too, babe." She says instead, using the photograph to blow him a kiss. Or so it appeared. In reality, with a quick and simple spell, the photograph disappears and rematerializes inside his jumpsuit seam.   
  
She winks at him, still mad she couldn't do it with the cookie as she'd planned.   
  
Then she crosses her arms to dig the phone harder into her ear and says happily, "I might be unfair, but the fact I'm a tease is one of the things you love about me."  
  
Alright, it was settled then. If Tony didn't love Dani by then, he most certainly loved her now. Even if this only made certain problems that much more difficult to avoid in the foreseeable future. It was just so dirty in that cell, and gross, and unhygienic.   
  
"Guilty," he smirked, finding too much amusement than what was appropriate for the setting. Which is exactly why it was so funny.  
  
"That's the thanks I get?" She teases with obviously faked indignation. Here she just smuggled him a naked photo of not-his-girlfriend (admittedly, Stef asked her too and she'd insisted over Dani's objections it was teasing him with something he couldn't have). And he just claims guilty. As if Tony's not guilty for the world.   
  
Still bemused she lifts the phone from her ear as she sighs out, waving off the overeager guard, "Tsk, Tonio, and after all I do for youuu..."  
  
"You mean bake me cookies and tease me? Yes, you are the epitome of helpful and considerate," he teased and then leaned forward to put his hand on the glass.  
  
"Quite right, too," and then pressed his cheek against it, a la Doomsday style. There was no way he was passing up this opportunity after all. Even if he did just mix two things together but shh.  
  
"You won't spend another three weeks without visiting me, right?"  
  
Bemused as he mixes Doomsday at the wall and at the beach, she's about to mimic his movement when the guard makes a yell and tells him to get off the glass. Prick. He just was trying to figure out where the picture she materialized had gone and taking it out on Tony now--she winces mentally wondering how often that had to happen, but he said he was keeping his head down. Right? ...Right? She bit on her tongue and says instead, "Allonsy, Antonio. Of course not. I'll come back as soon as I'm allowed."  
  
She swallows tightly before admitting quieter, "I...was a little afraid, to come here."  
  
"Oh alright, alright, take away my fun," Tony leaned backwards again, huffing in annoyance and biting back a comment about what exactly that guard could do with that mouth (Tony was torn between the options eating a dick or kissing his ass).  
  
Scratching the back of his neck absently, tilting his head as she admitted being fearful to come here. If there were two things that didn't belong in his mind, it was Daniella and fear. Of course, Tony knew no one was ever really fearless but Dani did a good job of covering it up.  
  
"Why?"  
  
Take away his fun...she looked away for a moment, thinking to herself it was an eerily good metaphor for everything he was living with in the cell and shivering with the thought. When the guard was back against the wall, she met his gaze again, surprised she'd said anything at all. Dammit, Antonio, did he have to be so easy to talk to?  
  
Licking her upper lip as she considers it, she mutters under her breath and exhales.   
  
"I guess because...I have a memory of seeing my Dad in here. He didn't stay long, my Mom...well, your Dad," she clears her throat and sits up taller, shaking her head, "but...I was really little, hard as that is to picture. I even put a ribbon in my hair. Purple, of course."  
  
Tony say up straighter, interest piqued as he admittedly didn't know much about Ryan. Tony never really cared before and even now, he still didn't. It was Dani's story and her experience he was interested in and concerned for, not Ryan Faye's.  
  
The casual mention of Remington as his dad didn't even phase him, and that was big in and of itself. Tony assumed the only way his father tied in to the story was getting his favored henchmen free, but the mention of her mother was more eerie than his father. Maybe that was because Daniella hadn't mentioned her at all before now. Tony realized now what Olivier meant when they spoke that bittersweet day while getting pedicures. They didn't know her at all.  
  
"And that right there," he wags his finger, "is why I expressively told Belle not to bring the girls." He didn't call her mom because he rather the warden or anybody else watching not know that yet, or about his sisters. His mom was smart enough to realize that too and didn't say anything.  
  
"I can't let them come see me here, ribbons in their hair," he smiled briefly before admitting, "aww you were probably such an adorable...and precocious child."   
  
She grins wickedly, ear to ear and shakes her head.  
  
"Why Antonio, did you just admit to me you have illegitimate children?" Belle? She knew their mother's name, but had never heard her referred to as anything other than 'Mom/Mama', which means he, like his brother, was keeping her and the sisters on the hush. The practicality of it would make her wince, apart from the fact it makes her beam in pride.   
  
Running both hands through her hair again and having to pause as the amethysts get stuck, she laughs off, "I'm sure I was. I'm still both," she winks, "but probably...more the latter. I believe I was five? Six? Ha, funny, I probably should know. You'd think I would. Deep buried personal fear and all. Should have the date memorized. Ah well." She snaps her finger. "Instead, I just remember the ribbon...and what my Dad looked like, which was not pleasant, hence, see, this is how much I love you."  
  
"I'm about 80% sure I'm sterile, but if I'm wrong there's a 1 in 100 chance that that's true," Tony quickly went over the math in his head with a perplexed expression and then nodded resolutely and affirmatively, "yes, 1 in 100, because condoms work 99% of the time." Normally, a good bet but for someone who has had sex at least 100 times, well, the math spoke for itself.  
  
Tony smiled, nodding genuinely, "I'm flattered. Thanks for coming by, Dani. It means a lot that you did."  
  
She blinks, wondering how he figured that and then after the first 'Ah' she blinks again.   
  
"How many of those last hundred were Stef though?" Last time Daniella checked, vampires weren't capable of procreation except if your name was Remington D'Grey and you weren't adverse to significantly dark magic and--ahhh, oh, wait.  
  
"You think you're sterile?" She asks in surprise. "Which could mean Olivier..."  
  
Stalling as she trails off with a little repeated blink, she exhales and shakes off abruptly with a cough and smile.  
  
"Yeah." She nods. "I love you, Tonio."  
  
Oh, very good point. For the first time he was thinking of the positive aspect of vamp!sex- no need for birth control! (Alright fine this was neither the first time nor the only positive thing about vampire sex but shh, he had a reputation to uphold.)  
  
"Maybe a good four dozen since she's been a vampire...but still, that's like 11, 12 years of sexual activity. There could very well be a little Tonio or Tonia running around in the world without my knowledge," Tony wasn't sure whether he would be gladdened or frightened by the news if he weren't sure enough that it wasn't possible to begin with. And that was his belief.  
  
Ah, potentially awkward. It was a weird subject to have with your brother's girlfriend, hell, any commitment was an awkward subject to have with a girlfriend of...how many months? Where did they start count? Ah, whatever.  
  
Smiling easier, he replied, "I love you too, Dani." The guards must have taken that as cue for his time being up. They came forward, grabbing the phone out of his hand and hanging it up before waiting for him to stand. Tony exhaled through his nose but only smiled at Dani and blew her another kiss before standing, extending his hands out for the cuffs and then getting escorted out of the room.


	18. Apart from living out a fantasy?

"Rene, can you just you know, run by me again why we're sneaking in afterhours? I'm not complaining," though hushed, Dillon was pretty sure his tone left open to interpretation if he was being sarcastic or not, "just wondering what I should be looking for."  
  
The smile he gives her is genuine though, a little flash to the adorable pout he got back. Irene looked gorgeous even when wearing what she considered acceptable clothes to sneak around in (which he wasn't sure those heels could be considered practical, and yet this he *definitely* wasn't complaining about).  
  
"Come on Sheila Holmes, clue Watson in on what we're doing here." He winks at her, then shushes as he hears something.  
  
"Apart from living out a fantasy?" Irene adjusted the deerstalker cap on her head as she peered around the corner of the hallway and then waved him forward as she realized the coast was clear.  
  
"Right now? An office door that reads Dr. Toub," she whispered. They were on the right floor at least. Dr. Toub was her mother's leading psychiatrist and since a search of her own home and her father's things for her mother's medical records had proven ill-fated, it was of course logical to copy the one directly from the doctor.  
  
Hearing something too, she pushed both of them into a corner, her hand over his mouth as she waited to see if it was anything. Letting go of him suddenly when she realized what she was doing, she grinned guiltily and whispered again.  
  
"Come on, Watson, the game is afoot!"  
  
Yeah, as Irene pressed up against him, Dillon pretty much immediately forgot that she was half answering her question. Pressed in the warm embrace/silent order, his tongue darts out to swipe over her fingertips before he smirked. Oh, he'd follow. Does Watson feel this foolish sometimes when Holmes does this, just dart off?  
  
(Oh of course he does, naughty bachelor is foolishly as in love as he is.)  
  
"Dr. Toub's office door it is."  
  
One of these days he was going to get a real full answer from her, but he's not asking for it now. With bemusement in his eyes and smirk, Dillon takes her hand and gestures with an elbow to lead the way.  
  
"Nurse' station will have a floor chart."  
  
Now was not the time to be reminded that she had a direct line from wherever his tongue touched her down to, well. Slapping his shoulder half-heartedly in false admonishment, Irene was back from a tiny glare to beaming as he took her hand and nods. Good idea!  
  
She had already spelled her heels not to clack on the floor but she still made sure to be stealthy. Visiting hours were definitely over and breaking and entering was illegal.  
  
See, this is why Dillon's mother didn't like her.  
  
The only problem with their plan was that there was something else at the nurse's station: nurses. Pursing her lips together, she wondered briefly why she didn't consider wearing scrubs before remembering she would rather die.  
  
New plan. "Could you float the chart without her noticing?"  
  
Winking purely without shame at the faux slap, he stuck his tongue out into the air again playfully because oh yeah, he'd felt that shiver. That shiver went straight up her spine under his arm, her chest pressing his for a heartbeat or too.  
  
Casting a quick glance around, Dillon had to admit, he had no idea why they were here. The low-lit hall of blue marble was void of cheery stickers and paintings that he'd learned to associate with doctor offices as a kid. That, porca miseria, was when he could convince  his madre that her old family cure from Corena wasn't going to work. Still, he'd never been in a facility like this before; if there were nurses, surely that meant there was full time care of some kind? So, a rehab, not just offices?  
  
If this bloody had anything to do with D'Grey... (Yeah yeah, apparently they were cousins, he got it, doesn't mean he has to like the guy's night job).  
  
"Yeah," he whispers back, "yeah I think I can, hold on..."  
  
Waiting a few moments as the nurse picked up the phone and started what sounded like a very intense conversation with a divorce lawyer, he snapped his fingers to lift the chart. Waving his hand through the air to let the binder float like he's trying to gesture a dog to him, it pauses behind a file cabinet when the nurse looks up.  
  
Luckily his cheating wife seemed to have most of his attention. Relieved and equally smug, Dillon catches it, then slips back into the empty side closet with Irene. Hand up, he says, "High-five. I am good."  
  
Irene didn't realize she had been holding her breath until Dillon had the little binder in hand and she exhaled a bit too loudly. Hurrying quickly into the hiding place, she high-fived him but then moved his hand out of the way so she could give him a quick kiss, all his fault and none of her own because he should know better than to wink at her.  
  
Opening the binder as Dillon continued to hold on to it, she flipped through the pages, assuming they were in alphabetical order, and trailed a manicured finger down the page before finding it and tapping twice.  
  
"Okay, looks like we'll have to double back to avoid the nurses' station directly but there it is. Come on," she took his hand again and after poking her head out of the door to make sure the hallway was clear, began walking down it again, having to take three left turns before they reached the correct hallway and soon the office door.  
  
She tried the door with no luck, should have expected it really, but while giving aneurysms wasn't a speciality of hers, unlocking doors was! With a snap, it clicked open and she opened it then, walking inside quickly when she heard something around the corner they had just turned, closing the door when Dillon was inside and locking it again.  
  
Breathe again. This was exciting!  
  
"Okay, look for a file belonging to Delilah Burns," she explained, taking a small torch out of her jacket pocket and clicking it on. They couldn't chance turning the lights on in the office after all.   
  
As soon as her lips met hers, Dillon's hands fell to her hips to hold and squeeze, their small moment of stolen passion next to bedsheets and cleaning supplies. It made his heart skip and Dillon could allow a brief moment of acknowledgement, fine, to why his cousins might enjoy breaking the law so much. Maybe. The clandestine was hot. Madonna mia, Irene made a deerstalker look sexy.  
  
In a bit of a daze he takes her hand again and follows, leaving thr chart on the metal, folded ladder behind them. Should he look for security cameras? Probably. It was a secure facility after all, and he did love to act, and there were extra doctor's coats in that storage...  
  
"Shh"ing himself as he darts into the room with her again, he lets out a small sigh once the door is locked behind them again. Slipping another torch out and clicking on, the narrow beam of light that miraculously seemed to land on her heels first. Huh! Go figure.  
  
Hold on had she said--his torch flicked up to shine on her jacket, neck and chest line.   
  
"Delilah Burns?" They were there to steal medical information on a relative of hers? If she was related, couldn't she just ask for it? Well, she probably didn't have power of attorney so--ah, yeah, asking her father was out of the question.   
  
It had to be the Italian mafia family he just found in him that felt better breaking the law knowing this was for family. Had to be.  
  
"Yeah, righ'--" Dillon jerks the torch back to the filing cabinets on the opposing wall and opening the top one marked 'Patients.'  
  
"B for Baggs...B for Bell...Brookstone..." He pauses, then groans, "...Patrice." Taking the offending file out and waving it, he said chipper, "so, some of them are out of order. Any ideas on the system if it's not alphabetical, Ms. Holmes?"  
  
"My mother," she explained very briefly, trying not to let the sudden sadness reach her tone. Irene was still shaken by her recent experience with Delilah. The image of her mother yelling at her and calling her a cunt was one she would not soon forget. Realizing that her father and brother had no interest in improving Delilah's situation, merely keeping it stable, Irene had to take matters into her own hands.  
  
"The bleeding bugger can't even keep files properly sorted?" She huffed, moving closer to the cabinets and then pulling one open to see if she could figure out a pattern.  
  
"Hang on," she checked a couple of files and shined the light on the date, making sure she was right, "I think they're by date of admission, or the time he took on the patient? Mum was first admitted, with this doctor at least," she closed her eyes and then counted on her fingers because mental math was hard, "October, 2021?"  
  
She put the files of one Roger Polk, Constance Perkins, and Wanda Patel back in the cabinet and slid it close before walking over to Dillon and the open cabinet of B's.  
  
"I am both annoyed and very glad that he hasn't gone digital. One quick search on the computer: bam, however, I sincerely doubt his password is 'password'.  
  
That...was startling; Irene had never really brought up her mother, except to say she was 'like her' with regard to Daddy's lack of approval. Here, though? His eyes dart to the doctor's specialist sign -- psychiatry and substance abuse? -- and then quickly off of the gilded sign at the description his girl gave. It's not that Irene doesn't swear (oh she absolutely does), but...that was a strong, sudden judgment on this doctor that he suspects has much more to do with that sign and her mother than whoever this bloke with the poor security and filing system was.   
  
Sliding the drawer further and reorganizing his mind according to her blast of insight, his fingers flick through manilla tabs quickly as he was capable. Nodding and chuckling once at the end he adds, "Probably not, but you know, I've been working with Rory on learning some spells to help there. It's irritating you know, cause magic and electronics are just kind of...incredibly not compatible but, we're working on it. Think one of these days we're gonna have to show all these supes it's not all about the magic you kn--ah!"  
  
Fingers tight on the paper, he smirks and draws back to pull it out and hand her, his other hand gently drawing her hair back to ensure it won't get stuck.   
  
"Delilah Burns."  
  
Irene was going to help him look through, expert finder that she was an all (yes, that was a self-given title so what?), but she found it much appealing to watch him as he looked and talked instead. All dexterous fingers and talk of new skills, yes, Irene was as bad as any other teenage boy. She had more than half a mind to push him onto the desk and have her way with him, and knowing that there were janitors and security guards walking the hallways only made it that more appealing, but him finding her mother's file made for a sobering moment.  
  
She grabbed the thick folder, damn it was dense, and after giving Dillon a quick kiss in pride and gratitude, held it to her chest before walking over to the desk she was contemplating a shag on and leaned against it instead, opening to browse quickly.  
  
Irene sighed, "Fuck if I understand most of this. Fortunately, I have just the neurologist to help me." Irene took out of her wand and then turned to place the folder on the table. Waving her wand over it and saying the incantation, she made a perfect copy appear next to it. She handed the original back to Dillon.  
  
"Come on, Watson, I'll explain in the car."  
  
Fully aware of her complete and utter objectification of him in that moment, it's only when Dillon heard the distinct distant crackle of a radio that he's reminded they can't stop for chit chat. Breaking and entering would just not look good on his resume for acting school (and he knew Dom needed the car by ten).   
  
Now she knew a nuerologist too? Dillon could only assume she meant Harper (or maybe Alcott?), but it didn't sound like that, since...wouldn't she have just said their names? Was he thinking on this too hard?   
  
Judging by the footsteps yup, yup he was. Seizing her hand to scoot them away from the door in case it opened, Dillon other hand flicked his fingers and snapped them quickly. The file flew back, the drawer closed. Breathless (and quite distracted as he runs fingers through her hair) he waits a full forty-five seconds before he decided the guard must have passed.  
  
"Car sounds good, Holmes." He says with a flippant smirk back down at her, flicking his torch back off and pocketing it. Before following, he sneaks another quick kiss.    
  
Was it just him, or waa this retreat a lot more harried than the sneaking in part had been? Or maybe that was his distinct awareness that underneath that deerstalker now lay a stolen folded, medical file. Nerves itchy, he keeps one hand in hers when they dart around a janitor's cart (shh, okay fine yes she caught him when he almost tripped) and back into the stairwell with the faulty door alarm. Flying down the steps, he freezes hearing voices, then looks to the landing door.   
  
"C'mon," he mutters, tugs; let's her unlock this one and reaches up with wire-cutters himself to fix this door alarm too. They're through just as two doctors pass, ducking under the window to insure they aren't spotted. He holds his breath. Exchanges one quick look with Irene, and finds himself breaking into a wide-ass smirk.   
  
Sprinting across the field and lot, hand in hand, he catches her at the car, lifts her up and spins her around, legs on his waist. Looking up at a shield of gold strands and toying with one, he leans up to kiss her softer, resting this and rear on his hood. He stops when he realized if he didn't, he was going to be carried away.  
  
So he slips his hand up her beautiful, short gold hair to pull out the medical file and asks, holding it between forefinger and thumb without letting her down, "Mind telling me what this is about now?"  
  
She felt like she was in a spy movie. Definitely one of her fantasies come to life, just another one Dillon made come true actually. And when he reached up with those wire cutters, oh baby, look at all of the felonies adding up! (Wait, was the name of the types of crime that weren't felonies because she wasn't sure this was a felony- oh screw it, it was still hot.)  
  
Running in heels? Always a challenge. She was more thankful than anything once Dillon picked her up, her ankles locking into their familiar place at the small of his back and her arms around his neck as she kisses him back, noticing that while not wholly innocent, the kiss was slow enough so that it remained only that.  
  
Pulling back with a smile and a lick of her lips, she nods, knowing she really couldn't put off telling him any longer.  
  
"Mum's mentally ill, and the medications she's on keep her catatonic most of the time. I never really understood much about it, father's a prick, so fat chance we'll talk about it, and Gordon's uncomfortable. A week ago though, Dillon, she seemed okay! She was talking to me, and I told her about everyone, about you, and she was fine, she just...Gordon says she tricked me, to get away, but I don't think she did! I think she just saw an opportunity to get away from the people who keep her doped up on tranquilizers...admittedly, she then proceeded to run to some sort of opium den but..." She rubbed at her throat when her voice broke a little but she stubbornly kept going because that still hadn't answered everything.  
  
"I want to know if her condition is really as hopeless as Gordon makes it sound, if that doctor is accepting bribes from my dad to keep her sedated, and I want to know...I want to know if I have it, or if I ever will, how high the chance is- stuff like that."  
  
It is a bit like crashing to Earth; Dillon's reaching for her heel before it scratches the car (Dom wouldn't let him live that down) as she leans on him and tells him she's afraid she might be mentally ill. (So it was a neurologist, neurologist, not a nickname for the Brackners.) The mention of an opium den has his fingers tense; he accidentally removes the back of her heel and stoops more to push it back on.  
  
They're both silent for a second, then he says the only thing he can think of to try and make this less - just- less. Not so raw and painful and intense. And then he puts it in Italian because she likes hearing his accent.  
  
"Santa Maria." He lifts up again to kiss her forehead, tuck a strand of hair away and pull her into a sweet, if short embrace. He wants to ask why she didn't tell him but he already knows; he wouldn't have told anyone either.  
  
"All right." He says, pulling back to look her in the eye. "First, let's get in the car, so we can make our daring escape undercover of night and go for hot chocolate." It was maybe seven degrees oC right now; he wanted hot chocolate.   
  
Still looking in her eyes, he adds, grin a bit lopsided, "But just so you know, Ms. Holmes, I am definitely already aware you're mentally ill and I definitely don't give a cazzo. I love you anyways."  
  
Irene had to admit that before Dillon kisses on the forehead held no appeal, whatsoever. Now she sighed as the small kiss gave her as much comfort as his warm embrace, and his murmur in Italian, yes that helped too. Wrapping her arms around his chest, she let his slowing heartbeat calm hers, looking back up at him as he pulls back.  
  
A smile pulled at her lips as he suggested a quick getaway to hot chocolate, admitting to herself yes that would be nice. Given the offices they had just broken into and the file he still held for her, Irene was glad and worried he hadn't suggested booze. Glad because he understood her worry was legitimate and worry because maybe he believed it was possible too. Or, you know, maybe he just wanted hot chocolate and she was worrying too much.  
  
"Don't joke," she found herself half-chastising, but like before it held no real sway because of her beaming up at him. If she was addicted to anything at the moment, it had to be him.  
  
Being a complete hypocrite, she made a joke of it too, "If I'm mentally ill then you're mentally ill for following me and being an accomplice to a felony. It's elementary, my dear Watson." She grinned too and then leaned up again to kiss him.  
  
"Say it again," she murmured after sighing against his lips, her eyes still closed.  
  
"Can't help myself," Dillon says instantly in a childish retort that only a sixteen year old can make sound so good. Letting her swallow him -- lips, breath, mind -- whole with the gentle tease, he nods, arms tighter on his waist.   
  
"I love you." He repeats on her command, a soft sigh of his own. "And I'm officially a criminal, why am I simply not surprised you have a thing for bad boys?"  
  
Ha! Dillon knew he was probably (considering their recent company?) the farthest thing from a 'bad boy' there was, and he knew she liked that about him. Whoever said nice guys finish last had simply never met Dillon Senzio. There was a difference between good and nice anyway--maybe isn't nice. The term, as Irene had explained in great detail, had a connotation in feminism to mean nice guys think girls owe them sex for be being nice or...something like that, she'd been wearing red at the time. So maybe he isn't nice, maybe he'd break into medical records, disable alarms and use magic outside of class even underage -- maybe he still wants to punch the daylights out of a certain werewolf and yeah, his cousin is in prison and he'd help jailbreak Tony if asked -- but Dillon does strive to be good. That was true.  
  
Pulling away reluctantly and setting her back down, he waits until they are in the car (yeah his eyes traveled over her rear in the coat, yes that was his little groan, no he does not have shame) to hand her the file.   
  
One hand on the wheel as he starts it, he meets her eyes as she takes it and says, "Just, one more thing. Whatever this says? If your mom is sick, then it's likely her actions don't have that logical, as we would understand it, a track. She wouldn't be capable of deep duplicity. So whatever she said to you, when you were telling her about us and everything, I am sure she wasn't lying Irene. I'm sure."  
  
It bore repeating as he relinquished it, put his hand on the shift and pulled out.  
  
  
"Hmm, it's the anarchy that rolls off you in waves, it fuels my fire," she teased, biting her bottom lip as she looked at him. Dillon was in no definition of the term a 'bad boy'. He was sometimes a dirty boy, and she always made sure to expressively tell him so right by his ear, but never bad. She never fell for the bad boys, only befriended them, she fell heads over heels for good boys with thinly veiled streaks of naughty, and for a time she had wondered why that was before coming to a simple conclusion: Irene was the bad boy. Well, girl, she was the bad girl, in a school scenario at least. Shh, it made sense, really. She was bad!  
  
Pouting a little as it was time to go, she walked into the car with a little bit of a strut, smirking as she heard his groan and then grabbed the file again after she buckled up. Looking back up as he added, Irene felt immensely more relieved and eagerly accepted what he said as the truth with quick nods.  
  
"Thank you, luv," she leaned in as far as her seatbelt allowed it and then pulled his head what was left of the way to kiss his cheek and then went back to sitting in the seat, comfortably and not distracting as she looked over the files again. Gabe would help her make sense of them. Speaking of, she knew she had to tell Dillon. He was going to find out eventually but...  
  
Irene bit her lip, "Hey, there's something else."  
  
Speaking of waves, Dillon thinks, as he watches relaxation come off her, shoulders rolling forward as some invisible weight is lifted with his admittedly baseless promise. For all Dillon knew he'd made as much logical sense as a mental patient would, but hey, they'd already assured each other that's what they were, yeah?  
  
He drives in as comfortable silence as he could, the good humor at his burglary somehow melting as the hospital disappears in his rear view mirror. No harm no foul, yeah? A maintenance worker would fix the alarms he broke, if anyone found the records Irene pours over now they'd logically assume she had them as a family member; the nurses chart would be put back by some janitor who presumed another moved it. So yeah, he was good, really, he just wanted a little clarification on this opium den mention--  
  
\-- oh, or, maybe he was feeling uneasy because he could tell she left something out. Lopsided grin back, he looks to her for a second as he comments, "Always is," then back to the road. Irene has a knack for meddling; the nickname of Shelia Holmes was not idly given.   
  
Still, it's hard to keep the wariness from his voice as he asks, "What is it?"   
  
She was about to back out when he first joked that there was always something more, and thought about just asking him to keep this to himself because she didn't really want to worry or bother anybody else as she was taking care of it herself and seeing as how it really didn't affect anyone else, it was fine to keep it between them for a little while. That was exactly what she was going to say, because she really wanted to have hot chocolate and have Dillon keep looking at her like that.  
  
But he looked at her again and she knew that he knew that what was coming was unpleasant still, and keeping it from him now would feel too much like lying and she would only feel worse and the hot chocolate definitely wouldn't be enjoyed.  
  
"Just remember, that you've acknowledged I'm insane, that you still love me anyways, and I love you back, and also remember you're driving a car so that's the priority, not crashing."   
  
"Okay, so that is a very ominous reminder," Dillon jokes halfheartedly muttering under his breath, "but then I have heard said that modest doubt be the beacon of the wise." Good ol' Shakespeare. Dillon could pull a quote of his for almost all occasions.  
  
This is modest doubt too; whatever Irene is about to say, he had no fear it would make him care for her less or want to crash the car. Make his life more difficult on the other hand? Yes, that there was a high chance of as all of her friends seemed wont to do.  
  
Irene nodded, clearing her throat and then put the file back on her lap and looked at him.  
  
"The neurologist I'm going to for help? He's in Paris, and his name is Gabriel Dorat."  
  
Yeah, it took a second to sink in.  
  
"Dorat?" Dillon asked slow, now determined to keep his eyes on the road, afraid more she'd see anger in his gaze he didn't care to show her than actually upset. It was one thing to not talk about something emotionally traumatic with your family. The name Dorat on the other hand?   
  
"Dorat as in...you're in contact with..." Damnit, why couldn't he speak? Unsticking his throat with a cough, he rubs it and then takes the wheel with both hands again, flicking his eyes to look at her briefly.  
  
"-His-..what? Brother, father, uncle...?"   
  
No need to clarify who 'he' is.  
  
Irene winced a little, preferring that he go back to quoting Shakespeare than being so unnaturally silent. Dillon who like her always had something to say, mostly quotes from the Bard, now stumbled over words and didn't finish sentences. That's how she knew he was angry.  
  
"Brother, older brother," she nodded briefly, exhaling again. She didn't answer that whole 'in contact with' comment but she had ignored it pretty pointedly. She knew he caught on to that, so ahe begrudgingly returned to it.  
  
"I tracked him down, I wanted to know more, but this isn't about that anymore. He's the only one, certified and professional at least, that I could trust to help me with this."  
  
"Okay sure, not anymore, but the first time was...what, exactly?" Dillon's thumb drummed along the wheel agitated as he turned the car, trying and pretty much failing not to sound angry as he asked. "A friendly chat to tell this doctor bloke that his brother gave you a dent in your head? Not to mention kidnapping me and my fifteen-year old sister, that he tried to kidnap you?"  
  
Yeah, he was angry, and as much as he knew the file on her lap should take precedence now he wasn't there yet. How could he be? He seemed a fair few weeks behind on important information in regard to his girlfriend's life.   
  
"Something like that," she admitted after pursing her lips and exhaling again. Okay, was it time to hit rewind yet? Can she go back to just feeling really awesome and really turned on back in that dark office?  
  
No, no she couldn't. Both of their libidos were shut down, exactly what you would expect when bringing up an unwanted third person into their relationship.  
  
"Ansel," she said his name stubbornly because the longer they went without saying it, the more power they would give it so fuck that, "found me a couple of weeks ago after a session with Audrey and he told me some things, I just wanted to get the other side of the story from his brother and I did and Gabriel is not his brother nor is he responsible for what Ansel has done and I liked him so yes, I'm going to him for help."  
  
Dillon was blank-faced and silent all at once, deflating like a balloon of anger instead of helium just had popped the moment she said -his- name, Ansel, spoken like it's a needle. It was impossible to be angry she spoke to his brother when she now admits the bastard was still stalking her. And it was impossible to be angry about the questionable meeting and fact she hadn't told him when he was still, bluntly, simply, -stunned-.     
  
How could she have...?  Nope, not computing. Dillon took another turn down the street, slowing as they re-enter suburban London. He blinks.    
  
"Irene," he finally said softly, "what does 'found you' mean? He doesn't exactly have a track record I'm fond of in that department."    
  
Ha! Bloody understatement that was.  
  
"He impersonated a barista," she smacked his hand on her thigh and then shrugged her shoulders, "no baristas were harmed in the making of his theatrics, I know, I went back the next day to check." Sure, because -that- was normal. Oh Lord.  
  
"He talked while I drank my coffee and yes, I yelled at him and insulted him and no I didn't just seek him out either, if that's what you were thinking. What else was I supposed to do? Walk out of there, away from witnesses?" Even though, she could have walked away and he wouldn't have gone after her. Irene thought he half expected her to do that by the end of it anyways.  
  
"I didn't tell you because I didn't want to worry you, nothing happened."   
  
With a small, exasperated exhale at the joke and clear amusement in Irene's response (because it would have been funny, would it, had a barrister actually been hurt?), Dillon lifts his hand to his forehead and scrubs sweat again. At least he didn't say that aloud, he thinks. Irene wasn't being serious, and he knew it, and she probably would not have appreciated the snippy, side comment anymore than he felt good for having thought it.  
  
Still, did she not realize they shouldn't have to think that way?! 'Hey at least he didn't hurt anyone this time when he showed up unannounced and cornered me into listening to him'? This was harassment! And disturbing! And --  
  
"Irene," he repeats with another sigh as he tries to explain, "I'd prefer to hear about it; silence is, that's--" he turned the car again, now approaching the cafe with the hot chocolate, "that's what's worrying and concerning..."  
  
As he pulls the car into the parking spot, he looks to her sideways and leans over to take her hand, squeeze once before speaking again.  
  
"I love, that you would have listened to him, and insulted him well -- that's a sight that I would have loved to see, selfishly, but he's a bad guy, Rene. He's not worth your time. And," he adds as he takes his hand back to turn the car off, "I understand I guess, asking this brother for help since yeah, he's a neurologist, but...look I have to admit, I'd prefer not ever to have to deal with that family again."  
  
Yes, she supposed, but silence was preferable to him having to listen to her admit that she had essentially buried the hatchet between her and Ansel. Thing is, she couldn't really get into many details without revealing what Ansel had told her and she had already promised not to tell. This was a dilemma.  
  
She did feel better once the car had stopped moving, and once Dillon had taken her hand and was looking at her pointedly again but the latter also made her feel a teeny bit worse.  
  
"He apologized, like...sincerely. And you know what, I forgave him. For his offenses to me, not to anyone else, but me personally, I forgave him, mostly. Hate just takes a lot out of my pores, look how huge they are now! I did not have pores this big a year ago!" She pointed at her face, because apparently that was the big deal here. Her pores.  
  
"Yes, Ansel's a bad guy but he wasn't always and...anyways, like I said, this," she gestured to the folder, "isn't about him. He doesn't even know I went to see Gabriel. I understand why you never ever want to see his face or hear the name Ansel or Dorat ever again but, at least for right now, Gabe's in my life."  
  
"For...gav--" But, Dillon swiftly caught on, let it be swept away by the brief vanity that makes him furrow his too-bushy Italian brows. Car off, it was going to rapidly get too cold in here again and there was hot chocolate right over there and she wasn't telling him she was accepting what the bastard had done to her; just that she let go of the anger and hate. For a second, he envies her that. It was unconscionable for him to do the same, but he does think she has good intentions.  
  
So after nodding, he gestures with a head jerk for them to go inside, yes with the stolen medical file and pulls the keys out, pocketing them once they've stood up again.  
  
"Yeah, all right. If you don't mind though, can I go ... with you, to this Gabe?" Gabe, not Gabriel, he notes after the words are out of his mouth. They already had nicknames.  
  
"Make sure he's not just a front man, for his brother, please allow me the overprotectiveness for a little bit where Paris is concerned."  
  
His furrowed fuzzy eyebrows wiggled now.  
  
Irene stepped out of the car, buttoning a few more buttons of her coat, the file in hand and waited for Dillon in front of the car, breathing a little easier as he agreed. She could tell that he wasn't happy, but he was trying to understand and not judging and she could definitely work with that.  
  
She nodded and kept a smirk at bay as he referred to Gabe by the nickname he gave her to use. Without her mental addendum of course: the babe. Gabe the babe. She was keeping that to herself.  
  
Nodding with a growing smile, she acquiesced, "Okay, yes, you can definitely come with and look after me." She stepped closer to him and leaned up, puckering up her lips.  
  
Chuckling as she puckers her lips up, Dillon steps closer as he wonders. if he was ever going to be able to stay angry with this girl for more than five minutes. Well, answer, not when she had that look and the deerstalker on, damn was this making reading Sherlock Holmes in public very difficult).  
  
Leaning down and cupping both cheeks to kiss her, sweet and soft, he brushes the tip of his fingers against her lips as he pulls an inch back and comments,   
  
"Try and stop me."


	19. Are You Talking About D'Grey?

As she walked up to the building, Alys took a pause to consider the size of this townhouse on the Southern side of a Parisian suburb. It had that beloved delapidated look, peeling wood on boards freshly covered in paint that seemed to run out halfway trying to hide it's age. 1800s, she thinks, judging by the gothic eaves and general aura of wasted decasence. The entryway door pushed open with a finger touch to a low-hanging chandelier and marble floor, tiled in black and white diamonds, but scuffed and covered by a threadbare rug that manages to miss hiding everyone of the worst offenses. Kids willfully disregard these rugs. A forgotten basketball sits on stairs to her left; what once had been one home became a split-level apartment complex. Warm, but fallen to waste, filled with the unappreciated deserving. Alys thinks: It was exactly the last place D'Grey would ever live (and exactly where he recruit).   
  
Tweaking her nose, she knocked. Once, twice for emphasis, for there was no hesitation in her now. Antonio had cured her of the thought his willful setup was done intentionally to aid the D'Grey cartel. While she still abhors the idea that she was being used, Dorat's goal presently aligned with hers, and she'd dance with the devil that brought her. Soon he'd realize who really lead in this waltz. All that left was gathering evidence on the organization itself. D'Grey's recent attitude had left one thing for her clear: he would let a drug war erupt and personally lay the Parisian streets to waste if it meant his brother was freed. She was safe only as long as D'Grey looks for Dorat.   
  
The door opened to reveal sandy-brunette teenager dressed in a mini-skirt and earnest smile. Letting her smile turn genuine to relax the girl, her words were still brisk.   
  
"Bonjour. My name is Detective Alys Dale. Is Daniella Faye at home?"  
  
The easy smile on the brunette turns to wary. Hand on the door clenching to a fist wrapped around solid wood--cherry, in need of a refinish--the girl pulls it into her side, thumb flicking the lock compulsively. Ah, Alys realized: a relative, not just a roommate.  
  
"No, she's not here."  
  
"Is she at work?" Alys hadn't moved her smile.   
  
"I don't know," the girl lied well; her shuffling feet gave her away where her eyes did not. "Is she in trouble, detective?"  
  
That remains to be seen, Alys thinks. Yet she was quick to assure. There was no need to worry the family yet.   
  
"I just need to ask her a few questions." And get a first hand look at where the girl lived when not crashing at the manor they'd met in. Mademoiselle Faye had been wearing earrings to bed of diamond and sapphire, had an amethyst ring, and hid her neck behind a similarly colored dress robe that, if not silk, was a remarkable imitation. Yet Alys wasn't surprised this flat was less than luxurious. As a publicist, she knew how to give herself a different image.   
  
Turning as Alys thanks her for her time and starts to move away, the girl waits until she has her hand on the entry's door to call her back.   
  
"Is this about D'Grey?"   
  
That surprises her. She would have expected either Antonio's first (nick) name as it was what he prefers, or -- and more probable, her not to know anything. A cartel didn't grow undermine the monarchial central authority by informing the roommates and the co-workers and the girlfriend's siblings of it's business. Better she prepare for nothing. Alys makes sure to slow-turn back, not wanting to be eager, not wanting to be disappointed.    
  
"I'm sorry, who are you?"  
  
"I'm Lila." Not what she asked, Alys thinks with a smile to herself.   
  
"I'm Dani's--" The girl starts.  
  
"Lila, who was-is," there was a pause and then quick correction, "it?" A voice calls behind her and Lila turned, face disappearing altogether behind the frame her finger still compulsively flicks.   
  
"A detective." There was hesitation in her voice and Alys thinks of who Daniella's father was. The original D'Grey's right-hand had never been caught, and Ryan Faye seemed to have taught his children cop-evasion that likely was so natural to him, he might not know he was doing it.   
  
"What?!"   
  
Lila's knuckles turn white before Alys' eyes, the other hand lifting as if to assure the speaker. Interesting, Alys notes.   
  
"She's looking for-" The door swings all the way open interrupting the end of the statement and Alys watches Lila's face turn from wary sibling to dramatically annoyed sibling in the instant it reappears. Lila mumbles, "Or okat fine, just answer the door yourself bro." It's ignored to a huff.  
  
Her hair jostling in the wind from the speed of the opening, Alys surveys the worried siblings brows and realizes quickly they might well be fraternal twins, with their likeness in everything but attitude.  
  
"You're looking for my sister?" The boy guesses.  
  
"Dylan." Lila was sharp, as if a knife, but sweet as if the steel belongs in the kitchen and meant to cut him fine and delicious. Alys smiled, but only a bit.   
  
"You want to ask about D'Grey?" Just as with his sister, Dylan volunteers the information. Alys nods this time. She had learned a long time ago the best way to get information sometimes was be patient and not to say a word. Dylan and Lila exchange looks of that kind of silent communication only siblings could understand, and then Dylan seems to tug the door out of his sister's hand to let Alys in.  
  
The Faye's house was marginally better kept inside; narrow walls in a wallpaper blue and white, light diamonds the same pattern of the marble floor. Photos greet her sharp eyes on the walls: of a fierce beach with jagged cliffs on a contrarily bright day, then a house on the same beach, then apparently inside it with her two escorts, and a third boy--ah, triplets, not twins then. Daniella must have taken the photo.   
  
Alys moves into the living room and after taking a quick glance at the stack of fashion mags askew on the table, she moves to avoid sitting on a rocking chair. Lila winds up in it, hugging a pillow with a cat on it as she looks back at Alys.   
  
Dylan stays standing. He folds his hand on a mantle, looking out a window on a wall angled forty-five degrees opposing her on a fenced in little field. Alys spies a vegetable garden - or actually, she corrects herself, as it was more likely an arcane garden for the occult magic they practice.  
  
Looking back to Alys, Dylan appears to have made his mind up. "Detective?"   
  
"Alys Dale," she supplies, realizing he was looking for her name. He nods, then waits. That makes her smile. Apparently, Dylan Faye had the same training as she in the art of gathering information.  
  
"I'm the lead detective on the case that--"  
  
"Arrested Tony." Lila said. Her eyes are wide and stuck on Alys', except when they were taking measure of her shoes. The detective only nods again.  
  
"Daniella had nothing to do with it." Lila insists. "The two criminals who were killed-" Alys doesn't miss that Lila refers to them as 'criminal.'  
"-she didn't know them."   
  
Alys cocked her eyebrow at her, as if to say 'and you know that how?', and Lila fell curiously silent. Even as her brother spoke over her silence, Alys thought that louder than the former. It was keen instinct that had brought her up young and quick through the ranks to detective while others her age were still earning stripes. The same instinct tells her now that Lila knew more than she would let herself say.   
  
"What my sister means is that the case you're on--it has nothing to do with Dani, but D'Grey..."  
  
Alys turned the eye from Lila's fingers, tracing over the cat embroidered fake fur to Dylan at the window.  
  
"And D'Grey?" She prompts. The siblings exchange another of those secretive little looks of checking with each other before Dylan speaks, now all at once.   
  
"D'Grey's father, he's dead." Dylan's simple sentence would have stunned half of France, Alys notes, but told her something she already knew. "And I met Tony, he's not..." Dylan shrugs, mostly uncaring, "He's a decent bloke."  
  
Lila interjects, stone-cold with a glare to her brother, "He murdered those men, Dylan." The lack of hesitancy only heightens Alys' eyebrow. Dylan waves off, apparently still too raged to speak at once.   
  
"But the elder one...Olivier...he, I don't care what anyone says, hasn't done anything but solidify his father's empire. The lack of fear on the streets is just evidence of how gullible this population -is.- Daniella's been seeing him for a few months. Maybe since October? It...it doesn't make any sense, frankly, she's never been inclined..." He clears his throat. Alys cuts through the pause, realizing why Dylan wanted to speak to her inside all at once.  
  
"You want to break your sister up with him."   
The smirk on Dylan's face was answer enough, even lost as it was to Alys shaking her head. He forestalls the words that might accompany her head shake quickly, his hand coming up and moving to sit across from her.   
  
"Please understand, Detective. I want him out of her life, yes, but I'm not suggesting a petty vendetta here. Just that, maybe if we can help you, it'all be mutually beneficial."  
  
Lila's fingers dart over the embroidered cat once more, as if she was trying to reconcile the phrase "mutually beneficial" with "working with the policia."  
  
"I'm not about to volunteer up pieces of the investigation-" for the first time, Alys spoke first, leaning back on the chair. It made perfect sense to her that Daniella's siblings would want the man gone, and that if talking sense into their elder sister had failed to work, they would move to their next best option: getting him arrested. What didn't make sense to her was why they thought she was willing to hand over sensitive information to two teenagers--three, if their other triplet was involved.  
  
"It doesn't have to be privileged." Dylan insisted, but Lila spoke over him now.  
  
"You're right, Detective. We're not involved in your investigation, we're teenagers--our sister's love life isn't your concern. Except, I kind of am involved." She admits, and Dylan looks at her quickly, then nods.   
  
"I know your witness." Lila said quietly, rubbing the back of her neck.   
  
Alys shifts in her seat a second in surprise, then sits up straight as she realizes: Lila couldn't be lying. She had to have been told by Jean himself. Until the trial discovery period (admittedly only a few days away but only the opposing council would know still), no one could know his identity, considering the nature of D'Grey.   
  
Lila exchanged another look with her brother, then said very quickly, "I had a crush-" The snort on Dylan's lips makes Alys think it wasn't so past tense,  "-on Jean's teammate in school and so I kinda kept hanging around the whole team even though they graduated a few years back and Jean was always very nice to me, so he would sit, and talk to me while I was making a fool of myself. Especially because Jean had magic too, I was uh, the one who started to guess that...so we stayed friends. Well, kind of. I hadn't really talked to him in a few months and then he called me out of the blue a few weeks ago, said he'd seen something and he was going in to witness protection but when he looked at the case file, saw Dani's name..."  
  
Lila was speaking very fast, like she was afraid, deathly so, of getting anyone in trouble. Yet there was a determination on her face too that impressed the straight-laced Alys. The Faye siblings might all be young--even Daniella was only twenty-two--but, Alys was learning quickly, it was no accident they were so at home in D'Grey's world.  
  
"I'm guessing you haven't told your sister," is what Alys says first, soft. Lila seems to relax, smile sheepish even as she looks to the door behind her. Averting her eyes before she'd let herself shake her head, Lila's response was hardly reassuring. But Alys believed her.   
  
"Jean's safe," Alys added, making Lila's smile turn genuine as she looked back around. Dylan rose again, walking around his sister's chair and curling his hands on the high-backed posts before he spoke.  
  
"D'Grey's infatuated with Dani, Alys. There has to be something we can..." He seems to struggle, trying to think what might be important to tell.  
  
"If you haven't even met him..." Alys begins hesitantly, still leary of the idea that she'd be putting two teenagers in harms way. The hand of dismissal Dylan gives her isn't encouraging, but she would give it to him for the sheer fact he meant to stand up to D'Grey. A cartel this powerful, that had been around centuries--well, Alys felt there was a simple...understanding of sorts, between those willing to do it.  
  
"I know the dealer he has out of his bar on the Rue-he works every Wednesday and Friday. And we know--we know Daniella has been put on a list that allows her bypassing the wards."  
  
Alys nods, very slowly. That, was much more promising. Lila was apparently busy squeezing Dylan's hand at the word 'dealer'--Alys' sharp detective eyes weren't going to miss that tidbit. But the girl got up as a teapot went, gesturing to Alys to ask. She shakes her head with a small 'no thanks', still focused on Dylan.  
  
"That is something, yes. But I'd still - I think, you should speak to your sister."  
  
"We're going to," Lila said, pouring the tea in the other room. It amazes Alys how sound carries when they're all listening hard. Dylan is nodding at her.  
  
"She's not...she's not this person, Detective. When we tell her...what Olivier has done, she'll want to help you to. And as for meeting him...we haven't, but we can." Dylan nods once, and Alys tilts her head. That wouldn't be suspicious at all, she thinks in bemusement. D'Grey wasn't born yesterday (actually she wasn't entirely sure how he was born; in some tales on the streets he was his father's second body and he'd been born in the nineteenth century).  
  
"But Dani-" Lila perks up, walking back into the room, "We can talk to her."  
  
That, Alys liked the sound of much more. Taking the tea she had already tries to refuse once (it'd be rude otherwise), she takes a sip and settles in to the couch more. What was to have been a short visit now looks a lot longer, but an undercover asset was always...worth considering.  
  
She smiles, tentative as she hastens to ask, "All right. Just one thing then."  
  
Dylan smiles at her, and Alys just wants to shake her head thinking it likely many girls had fallen for those pretty blue eyes.  
  
"And you're how old?"  
  
  



	20. What are You Thinking About?

"I'm not thinking. I have lost my ability to think. My brain has turned to mush, mush that they are serving for breakfast, lunch, and dinner. I am a slave to routine. A god among sinners. A devil among saints. I am a candle with no wick. A river with no water. A mountain with no summit. I am neither here nor there. I am the sword in the darkness. I am the morning and the evening star. I am cannibal. I am he as you are he as you are me and we are all together. I am colorblind. I am what I yam. I am Lord Voldemort.  There are no men like me, only me. I am legend. I. Am. Bored. Bored. B-O-R-E-D. BORED! Booooooreeeddddd!"  
  
"So I'm trying not to laugh-" Olivier fails the moment he says that and then just shakes his head, "Let me get this straight though, you're missing the impersonating and kidnappings and fires and blood-drinking and France under siege--?"  
  
Tony whines with an adorable pout, "No, I miss my girls."  
  
Olivier tilts his head so it strikes the back of the cell as he folds arms across his chest and he chuckles out delighted, "Oh, really? I haven't sent enough of them to you then?"  
  
"For the record, Bri is your girl not mine."   
  
"Not so sure about that, 'kitten'," Olivier raises his hand and does the quotes with an easy grin, "Bri waltzed home and asked if she could keep you." He pauses, "Though she has a tendency to do that."   
  
Tony snaps his fingers, "And here I thought I was special for a moment." 'Kitten', pah. He didn't purr when you scratched behind his ear.  
  
"Oh, you are." Olivier nods absently, "Briana doesn't really...like men, so." He shrugs. Yes, Briana, that was a generalization. It just also happened to be almost ninety percent true. Unless you counted for eating, but he suspected Tony would take slight offense.  
  
"I'm not a man, I'm a *pet*," Tony wrinkled his nose in distaste but he didn't think it helped him looking less like a kitten.  
  
"And," Tony huffs, "no. Stef and Dani have visited a grand total of once each, not nearly enough time. Irene writes to me because she says that way I have something to do and look forward to. We're pretending to be lovers separated by war, but the letters arrive through snail mail."   
  
Tony groans, "No idea where Liza's gotten her pretty little head into, she hasn't been here for at least two weeks. Amalie sends her love," Tony picks up the paper he left discarded nearby, "and her," he reads aloud, "'concern that this is the face of the new Paris D'Grey has promised'."   
  
Tony humphs.   
  
"Not to mention my ungrateful student has yet to show his face, which means I'm having him do the Spartacus workout on difficulty: Impossible. I mean come on, it's not like they have their own lives to worry about before my own or anything."  
  
After laughing near compulsively with each new addendum to Tony's list, with his eyebrow    cocking higher each time, he adds, brightly, "Hey well, look at it this way: if her concern is you being here fails the promise I made, we're rather on the same page." Olivier hands slide through the loops in his suit jacket and he drops palms to smack his thigh before adding, "You're right! How ungrateful of them and rude."   
  
"Sure Oli, that's    exactly her concern, I'm sure you had a long nice talk over sushi." Imagine if they had though: snapping chopsticks together to interrupt each other, to point, to vaguely insinuate this-piece-of-wood-could-penetrate-your-skull-so-watch-it. Cariah was the ship that sailed itself.  
  
"Of course not, fratello." Olivier speaks With a slow smirk,* If I take her out to sushi again, all I'm doing is letting her know my interest. No no, see, if I don't play hard to get," he walks slowly away from the wall, and leans closer, "Then she'll just know I'm a whore."   
  
He winks, but it was true. Amalie's stories would    gain credence if he lent papparazzi the image of them in a sushi bar. Why is D'Grey worried?, the headlines would read, gasp could she be right? Could the rumors be true? Perish that thought--and let it die a very unnatural death while he watched and indulged.   
  
And technically, Car-er, Amalie rather, had taken him out for sushi the first time, not the other way around but that was neither here or there as much as his brother was teasing his 'OTP'. Humph.  
  
Nodding, though he's a bit happier to note that Daniella actually had come, he adds as a side note, "Maybe not here, but Devin's been to the house every other day all week. Said he knew you'd kill him if he didn't keep it up and that well, that just wouldn't help your defense."  
  
"Please tell me he's left     the little witch back at Oz while he's there. I don't want to get back home to find out she's hexed my bed to smother me in my sleep."   
  
Good though, Tony was glad that Devin was still working. Can the guy not even send a postcard though, geesh. The thanks you get.  
  
Smirking, he casts his glance around the cell: honestly already restless in here and well, just proud of his brother for not already having ripped someone's head off considering how tempting it had to be. The urge only increased with the fact he couldn't lie as he added, "Actually, Audrey has,     yeah, but it was with Irene. I'll let her tell you why though--wouldn't want to uh, ruin the surprise in those letters. Spoilers."  
  
And why yes, he did say that like the infamous River Song. Tony should be proud.  
  
Pausing as his heart skips a beat unnaturally now, he thinks: he's relieved Tony couldn't hear it for once.   
  
Olivier chuckles. Hand brushing off his thigh he adds under his breath, "And you don't have to leave Mom off the list: I know she was here.  
  
"She's not my *girl* though, she's...mom."  
  
"Yeah, well, I'm pretty sure she's female, so...wait, so, were you saying Devin's one of your girls too? Haven't you pissed off enough people without adding someone who is already inclined to wanting you dead?"  
  
"Audrey's with Irene? She's trying to poison her against me! She's already got her talons in Dev," Tony narrows his eyes, "I am unhappy. And he can't kill me yet, I haven't trained him that well yet."  
  
"Poisoning the well...and a lament you haven't trained him well enough to kill you yet." Olivier chuckles, shaking his head. For someone who was in prison being charged for murder (and, yeah, murders he was technically guilty of), his brother sure did a fine job of bitching about the unimportant things. And like hell, he was going to take that away from him. Tony didn't have to focus on the big, glaring issues: he was doing that for him.  
  
"I have priorities, okay?" Tony defended himself after making sure to wipe the pout from his face. He didn't understand why his brother *didn't* think it was important that he was allowing sanctuary to his mortal enemy without him being there! That made sense, trust him.  
  
Tony clears his throat, "But yes, Mom's been here. She did say you two had talked....?"   
  
Hint hint, eyebrow communication activated. Message: elaborate please? Sending. Sending. Sent.  
  
Fine, Olivier was stalling and no, he didn't think he'd like having it pointed out. Of course, Tony's eyebrows already were. Sighing and falling to sit on the bed, he nods, eyes fixed on his brothers shoes. Wait. Those were the shoes they gave you in prison? Ick.  
  
"Yeah, we talked. Carina's got     you-us rather- on Google Alert. So." He breathes out, awkwardly. Damn, his brother had to be missing his shoes.  
  
Watching Oli sit down, he nodded, already knowing the part about Carina finding out via google alert- "You're proud of her, aren't you?," Tony restrained a roll of his eyes but not the scoff or the tiny smirk after either.  
  
Olivier smiles, but doesn't comment on it.   
  
"That's how she found out. We were...finding better communication methods, I suppose." Sure, that was one way to put it.   
  
"Better communication here having the meaning of actual communication then."  
  
Scratching his hand over his eyes, as Olivier screws them up thinking, he laughs to say yeah, he was a little bit proud. And then kept laughing even if it was softer at the last.  
  
"Actual communication, well, maybe. I uh. Don't think you can count conversations that involve talking and-or-screaming at....as actual communication though."  
  
"No."  Tony chuckled once and then shook his head, his brief smile fading as quick as it got there, "Guess not."  
  
Knowing his brother, and their mother (though admittedly not as well), they probably both deserved what the other screamed at them...maybe mom a little less, and Olivier not enough, but that's okay, Tony yelled at Oli plenty for both of them.  
  
Sitting up a little bit straighter now as he hears Tony laugh too, Olivier feels his gaze shoot up to him, like drawn there by a hook and string. Forgetting where they were, he thinks it strange that Tony didn't leap to Belle's defense considering it..was pretty obvious he was the one that yelled. His eyebrows said that for him. Then again, he felt for his brother: he knew what it was to be stuck between a sibling and a parent,...too well.   
  
So he tries, "But yeah, we talked a little. Easier to focus on the present, you know." Clearing his throat, he smiles a bit and adds, now speaking in Italian, "She asked me not to make her a grandmother just yet. Told her what you said. About ligers not reproducing, you know."   
  
Yeah, because them being sterile or something, that was a cheery topic! Oivey. He drops his hand onto his lap and nods again, trying to be encouraging, "I still wish I knew her better."  
  
Given that their mother and Olivier's past was barely existent, yes, it would have to be immensely easier to focus on the present. Suddenly surprised to hear they had apparently reached an easy point of conversation, to the point of joking about possible grandchildren (of which Tony still believed highly improbable), Tony chuckled again.  
  
"Yeah...if it makes you feel any better, it's not just you. Mom has a tough time letting anyone in."  
  
Tony imagined that must have gotten worse after he left, and then maybe a little better now with Cormac and the Senzios. Still, Dillon -had- said that even his aunts and cousins only went on speculation for a long time. When Italian women don't find the dirt, you know something's definitely on lockdown.  
  
*Oh, and they had been doing so well!* Olivier thinks churlish and probably like the spoiled, privileged prat he'd always been, but it didn't make him feel better to think it wasn't just him. He was Olivier D'Grey, and he was her *son*. (Though maybe, he should stop calling himself that if he wasn't going to be willing to say it to her face. And why should he? She hadn't honestly said it to him either.)   
  
The point was he wasn't like anyone else, he was special, and all he thinks is this is yet more evidence he wasn't anything special to her, just like everyone else.  
  
Tony didn't mean that, so he says nothing. He can see it on his brother's face: there was hope there, and fear, and most of all a kind of understanding Olivier couldn't help but feel he doesn't deserve. Didn't he just tell Dani he hadn't forgiven Tony either? Madone, how was it his brother was just so bloody--understanding of it?  
  
"She's an incredible woman, fratello. I only really understood how much...a couple of weeks ago." He chuckles, rubs the back of his neck and the smile is gone again. "Hopefully one day...you'll see that too.  
  
Course, before that day you'll have to forgive her, stop being angry with her, and place the accurate amount of blame on dad's shoulders-," i.e. nearly all, if not completely, but sure, he could give away a quick 5% of blame to Ryan too, why not?), "-so it might take some time."  
  
As Tony continues, Olivier's eyebrow cocks, but he feels better with the accusatory words however nicely spoken. Nodding his head, "Well she chose to have us." His smile appears and vanishes as quick as Tony's did. "So she did something right, yeah."   
  
"She did more 'right' than just...push us out, Oli. Just saying." He knew it probably wasn't what his brother meant, but Tony still had to clarify the issue. There was nothing wrong with being precise, and Tony could stand being a little more of that.   
  
Of course, he wasn't sure Tony agreed with him but he was striving for common ground as best he could. He pauses after freeing his hand from his pocket and then asks with a head tilt, gesturing behind his brother,  
  
"Bri mentioned you might have cigarettes?" Not as good as alcohol for cravings, but not bad in the pinch, especially as he wouldn't jump Daniella again.   
  
Nodding at his brother's question, he looked over his shoulder, passing his hand through the correct spot on the wall to reach his cigarettes. Grabbing one, he hands it to Olivier as he keeps listening.  
  
As he waits, he continues aloud, "She did you know. Choose. That's what we talked about." Though his fingers, anxious for something, had been wrapping the blanket around and around he stills and his eyes darts back up as his words seem to be a knife he's determined to add in, "And Dad didn't hurt her. The--magic, to have us, it just made her tired. Actually she seemed to say it took more out of him than her but--," he breathes out, still pointed, "it didn't hurt her."  
  
He flicks his fingers away and looks over his brothers shoulder as if to throw it away; his voice dropped in pitch.  
  
"What exactly do you think is an accurate amount of blame against Dad? You both-- you both, act like he did something to me that was just so terrible and I don't...understand that, I don't. I've come to get your moral objections to what he did for a job, to a point, and definitely for food but--"  
  
Olivier just cuts off, shaking his head, not sure what to add and definitely not feeling comfortable enough saying it aloud.  
  
What did Olivier really want him to respond to that? Congratulations, their dad actually didn't physically harm their mother for his own greedy motives? Tony knew plenty well, and Olivier did as well so there was no excuse, that you didn't need to physically harm a person to cause damage. Not that he was calling their mother damaged...even if she was. Because that was who their father was: a master manipulator. He used people's insecurities and desires against themselves, and didn't have to lift a finger to do it. But of course, that didn't stop him from doing so every now and again. Though he suppose, he should give credit where credit is due.  
  
So alright, congratulations dad. You didn't physically hurt the woman who loved you and wanted to make babies with your gross face. No, but you did manage to hurt her every other way possible, worse than anyone before. Even beyond the grave, you've managed to hurt her by making her firstborn son into an apologist for her abuser. That took some skill.  
  
Tony really needed to stop talking to his Remington mentally before he talked back one day.  
  
"An accurate amount of blame? Let's see. An accurate amount would start with assigning him blame for the fact that he sent a crony to forcibly take you away from mom, no matter what it took, and the fact that he stole me away from her just to get back at her for pulling the wool over his eyes for so long. That's a good start. We could also add the fact that mom was prepared and willing to come back with me that day, as a vampire like he wanted, except he basically told her to fuck off and fall off the edge of the Earth. On pain of my death, apparently. But the fact that he would have killed me is old news by now."  
  
Toyn wrung his hands together, looking at the ground briefly before passing a hand through his hair. "True, it's not his fault she left in the first place."   
  
That was completely and totally debatable.  
  
"Definitely not his fault that she didn't come find you after dad did die."  
  
Even if she hadn't known until Tony had found *her*, and he hadn't exactly been willing to talk about his brother that day given that Tony had been told he wasn't wanted, even if that had turned out to be bullshit.  
  
"And it's not his fault that she chose to save me-" and live, "over you-," and die trying, "but everything else? Yeah, that was pretty much his fault. It's not like I'm telling you to blame him for global warming or for MCR breaking up."  
  
The listing of small facts his mother couldn't be held responsible for, according to Tony, was phrased to make them seem even smaller. Yeah, yeah, she only left with you in the first place and took you away from him; that's not that big a deal. She didn't ever, in twenty-five years, come looking for you, even after she knew Dad was gone. Wait, twenty-six years, as she reminded him, though he hadn't willingly celebrated his birthday yet; Hans had left him a voicemail, but he'd never told Stefanie or Daniella when it was. That was just fine with him.   
  
And she just chose - after supposedly this big decision that his life would be in danger if he returned home - to "hand him" right back over to a "crony" of Dad's, walk away and never look back (in any manner he could hold quantifiable as after all, he wasn't in his mother's head). Great, his brother was right, how could he have ever thought to blame her at all?   
  
Jaw tightening, a hand lifted to his eyebrows smoothing them down, and taking his sweet time doing it; the blurred heat from his fingers distorting Tony's face. Ironic, as it just seemed that Tony could actually look at him.  
  
Tony looks back to Oli, finally, and speaks, "He did do something terrible, Oli. We've gone over it lots of times- the last time you were here even! But it's not only about you, he was horrible to mom. And he was horrible to me. But he taught you everything you know and he was the only person who never left you, and you think you're the shit and the bee's knees and that everything you are you owe him and since you're pretty happy altogether especially now with your big bad empire back and your freaky hot girlfriend keeping you sated in all definitions of the world- hey, he can't have been that bad a guy right? Because, you turned out not too bad right?"  
  
"The 'bees knees'?"   
  
It slipped out, but he made no other comment on it through his sudden smirk. Was that a (Tony D'Grey version of) subtle reference to the fact that Dad was turned in 1926? Thinking of that let him ignore the fact his brother was acting like accepting himself had been the wrong thing to do. Like being happy with his girlfriend was the wrong thing to do, because he should just be sitting around wracked with guilt with what he did to his father, to his brother, to innocent people and vicious criminals. Or maybe it wasn't that being happy was wrong: just he shouldn't give any credit to his father for it.  
  
"So according to you," Olivier slips in, "The man who raised me, gets no credit for my inner security." But he got all the blame for the fact that Olivier grew up without Mom. Olivier rolls his eyes to the ceiling breathing out and counting mental pretty pictures of Dani in that sapphire gown, but his brother wasn't done.   
  
"You're a worse listener than Stef, no, I'm saying he is exactly the reason for your 'inner security', as you put it." The reason why Olivier was so secure in himself and what he did, because Remington taught a young boy how to manipulate, extort, use, and abuse people to get what he wanted, no matter the consequences. That's what was so horrible.  
  
"I mean," Tony lifts his hands up and gestures to this cell I'm only in here because I denied who I was and then after I wasn't willing to cover it up. What good does being good do? I'm just proving you right! Why didn't I just suck some blondes from the beginning? Why couldn't I just have thrown away my morals ten years ago instead of now? Maybe he would still be alive, maybe the Death Eaters would have never gotten a foothold in France, maybe Eliza would have never been tortured, maybe Nadia would have never been kidnapped and abused, maybe Emily would still be alive but I wouldn't have met her so it wouldn't have mattered to us if she were! If only I had just been a little more bad."  
  
Ah. No, it wasn't about that at all, Olivier realizes. The sudden rant, rife with things you couldn't be sure about (and Olivier hates not knowing) crystalized the image. (Though it appeared only to confuse the brother who'd said it in the first place). Dad didn't love Tony. Dad never wanted Tony the way he wanted him. Olivier should blame him for that. Oh, Tony, he almost says, you don't think I already did?  
  
Tony dropped his hands on his thighs, unsure of what led to his rant as it clearly wasn't the way he had wanted to go.  
  
"So explain it to me, Olivier. I never asked you to, didn't want to hear it because I had already made up my mind but really, in your eyes, what kind of man was Remington D'Grey?"  
  
Slowly arching an eyebrow as Tony slaps at his thighs, Olivier picks a spot on his brother's shirt to look at. Counting the threads (they should be sapphires), he scoffs out before responding. At least he didn't repeat the question, ask his brother to crystalize the position again: it was too stark a picture for his comfort already.  
  
"He wasn't Remington D'Grey to me," he cautions first, though he has every intention of answering that too, "He was Dad, and that means more than genetics. You're right. He taught me a lot, I owe him a lot - but not everything. If he was my everything, he would be alive, and that isn't speculation. I chose you. Not at first, not soon enough, but I did. And the only thing I regret about it at this point is telling you to leave."   
  
That was the only thing Olivier regretted, really? Tony didn't question it, merely raised his eyebrows and kept silent waiting for Olivier to explain it to him like he had asked. Tony knew that it was going to take a lot of patience and open-mindedness from his part to go through the explanation but when it began with the statement that Remington D'Grey missed being human or valuing being human, no one could blame him for being skeptical to say the very least.  
  
Even though he hadn't been able to look his brother in the face, even though he'd been terrified for his safety - was he not allowed to be mourning Dad? Was he not allowed to be gobsmacked by grief and confusion when the pair of them had done such a bloody beautiful job of inverting every value he held, everything in his life upside down?   
  
"If I hadn't, then..." Olivier points around the room in the same gesture. Tony might have learned control; Tony might not have been taken by Gina, he might not have killed anyone else, he might not be here. More speculating, more uncertainty, but hey! It was like a terrible version of Jack Sparrow's weddings: Guilt all around! And no rum.   
  
But his brother was asking him to tell him who Dad was as a man, and it strikes Olivier that after living with him for seven years, Tony didn't have any idea what kind of man he was. That hurt, to understand. At least he didn't know Belle because she literally wasn't there.   
  
"Dad was complicated. He got in his own way a lot. He'd forgotten a long time ago what it meant to be human, what it meant to value a person's being, but I...I think he did miss it, when he let himself. I don't think we'd be here if he didn't."  
  
In his marketing 101 class, nearly...8 years ago, holy shit, they briefly covered the three levels of morality. Then again, he had no idea if that was the actual name of it as Tony barely remembered and he could be filling in blanks in his head with his own information without even being made aware of it. No memory of details aside, Tony still got the gist of it. The first level was considered toddler-like: you did things without any consideration to others, because you wanted it, and as long as you didn't get caught, you didn't do anything bad. The second level consisted mostly of social norms, and what society considered good and bad, as well as law and order. The third level, which some people never reached, encompassed a sense of social responsibility. Remington D'Grey, had never gotten past a toddler mentality, and taught Olivier the same.  
  
"He remembered being happy with family. He remembered his sister, her husband, their children. He remembered holding Gemma in his arms when she died." Olivier's breath hitched in his throat. "Was murdered, rather, by a hunter."   
  
Birthday cake half-chewed on a lolling tongue, Tony had looked so small to him when he almost repeated history for him. Like father, like son, Olivier thinks bitterly and hikes his feet off the ground, turning to take the cigarette. He lit it with his thumb, not bothering with a lighter and then blew the flame out, but not before cast him in an eerie red, the shade on Stop signs and ambulances.   
  
"His own father was a clerk with the courts; they should have had plenty of money, but instead...he gave and gave and gave it all away, or wouldn't even insist on collecting in the first place. The course was unsustainable, of course. Dad went to work, to bring home what his father wasn't for his sister. He knew she wanted to get married, and he wanted her to spend that day looking like a magazine cover; he wanted her name to be recognized, their name to be recognized. They weren't going to be laughed at anymore."  
  
It was hard to imagine a Remington that missed his humanity, but it was even harder to picture Remington back in the 1900s as a human himself. He was finding it very hard to draw a line between the man Olivier was describing and the vampire who had killed his pet dog in front of his eyes and left him to bury the body by himself. Tony bit back a comment about how goodness must have skipped a generation, thinking oddly he might have gotten along with his grandfather. Though he didn't understand why someone would laugh at a family who was doing good for others. Was being poor so humiliating, or was it not pressing the repayment of debts? Either way, some people really sucked.  
  
It wasn't a surprise to hear their father was hardworking, of course he was, you didn't build a drug empire by being lazy and unmotivated, but working to have his sister all dolled up for her wedding? There was a time in Remington's life when he, -gasp-, wasn't a selfish bastard? Maybe there was something Jamie/Cersei going on. Now that would be a scandal.  
  
"He wasn't just...smart, he was intuitive, brilliant. That look he had, when he'd just look at you and you knew he was aware of everything you're hiding in an instant?"  
  
Olivier paused. Talking about his history was one thing; bringing up how Dad was at home around Tony was...something else, he'd come to know that, even if he never saw it.   
  
(But if you didn't care what anyone thought Dad, why would you care if I knew or not?)   
  
Tony nodded at Olivier's half-rhetorical question, even if he wanted to point out that the look must not have worked very well otherwise Remington would have realized when Tony began working with the hunters, or when he decided to leave the first time, or why he came back to begin with. Tony D'Grey was impervious to the Remington D'Grey know-it-all look. Tony took a moment to be momentarily smug, and then moved on from that topic, and feeling, forever.  
  
"Dad realized the great opportunity that was American prohibition, the fact that the wealthy, bored Hollywood stars would pay through their nose for French and Italian wines. Dad was an entrepreneur, Tony, and a business man. It made him ruthless. If you didn't pay him what he was owed, then you had no value, that was the way he was. He didn't have time to care about the reason why when he was human, and as a vampire, he lacked the ability."   
  
Olivier didn't mean just money though. The bottom line meant Dad could assert his influence, the fact he was different and born to greatness.  
  
"Dad took it upon himself to learn everything he could, too. To know everyone, to be everywhere. He was cultured and he made himself integral to culture itself. I mean," he questions with a small smirk, "is there anyone in France who hasn't heard of our name? It's become children's fables in England; there's books about him, more articles than you could ever read, photographs...he mattered to history. Was that beneficial to Society? Sometimes."  
  
He had to work really hard not to roll his eyes as Olivier mentioned the 'historical importance' of his father. Yes, Oli, Remington was part of history but so was Mussolini! Tony snorted, rubbing his neck but waving his hand on to show Olivier he could continue despite the small interruption. He highly doubted Remington being beneficial to society in any way.   
  
"Dad wasn't good," Olivier sighs out, "but I don't think he was evil. We can argue about that until the end of time, but I can tell you for certainty, he didn't think of himself as either."  
  
And that was the main difference between himself and his brother. Olivier didn't think their father evil, but then again he didn't loosely use the term either, whereas Tony thought there had been no greater evil not-alive in the world, back when he was still not-alive, he meant.   
  
"Good and evil?," Olivier continued, "Those labels are arbitrary, meaningless to him. He was incredibly passionate I think - because you could be everything in the world to him, or you could be frozen out so entirely it was like you didn't exist. And when he lost Gemma, he just...shut off, I think, it was too hard. He'd cared too much. And so yes, years passed, decades, where he created himself an entirely new identity away from that loss, and pain. Except, he looked after Gemma's kids, looked after their kids, looked after Nonna. He listened to Nonna until the day he died, you know."  
  
It was always funny to him: watching the two of them go at it in Italian. He wonders if Nonna ever hit Dad with her spoon, but clears his throat, finally meeting his brother's eyes again.  
  
Remington was evil to Tony, and though he could try to understand why his brother didn't see him that way, that didn't mean Tony was going to change his mind about him. And he was understanding better. It was gruesome the way that Olivier could make him sound more morally ambiguous than the fucked up bastard Tony saw him as, but Tony had asked for it. It put things in perspective, actually.   
  
For instance, Olivier thought of him like this, probably in a better light, when Tony had asked him to join him in betraying their father. When Tony shot two bullets through his chest and then drove the wooden stake through, just to be sure. Tony in his mind vanquished a big evil from the world, while Olivier lost the only parent he'd ever known.   
  
And apparently, Olivier had known him really well. There was probably no other person alive who knew as much as Olivier, except Nonna, whom Tony guessed supplied some of the stories herself. Thing was, back when Tony said that their mother was difficult to get to know, that she hid herself from everyone, he meant himself too. Tony might have made his brother feel like an orphan back when he was 19, almost 20, but Tony had felt like an orphan for nearly a decade before that happened. In some ways, he still felt that way. Except he wasn't a big enough dick to actually say that to their mother's face.  
  
"In my eyes, Tony? In my eyes, he was this tall, well-dressed man when I was a kid who would smile at me, that's what I remember most. It wasn't twisted, it wasn't bitter, it wasn't laughing at you like he knew what you didn't, this terrible joke he was about to play on you -- but warm."  
  
Tony almost commented shock at learning that Remington could actually smile, but he knew that firsthand. The most sincere of smiles had crossed the vampire's face in his final seconds, a smile that still send shivers down Tony's spine if he thought about it for too long. The closest he ever got to that before was one Christmas morning.   
  
"He told me I was special, that I was different and should be proud of it, and that was long before you were even there. I remember him sneaking me glasses of wine as a kid at parties, I remember that when he discovered me eavesdropping he just laughed and gave me tips on how to do it better. Talking to him on end about books, and art, and music - listening to classic jazz on his own old record player. I remember he was the only person who could explain to me, when tragedies struck, how it was even possible to have happiness in this life again. Not as well as Maria Von Trapp, naturally, but...he made it all right for me anyway. Never once did he make me feel ashamed."   
  
Though maybe he'd be a 'better' person if Dad had, every once in a while. Olivier shrugs a shoulder. Wasn't that why he had Jiminy Tony in his head though?   
  
Yes, Olivier had already commented several times over the years, more often their teenage years, that dad had never made him feel like he had something to be ashamed about for what he was. Tony responded that of course he didn't, Remington wanted to make Olivier exactly like him. So while Tony never called his brother a monster directly, even though he had referred to his actions as monstrous from time to time, it was close enough that it didn't matter anyways.  
  
"Dad was proud of everything he ever made, he took great stock in it. It was like once he made something, their accomplishments were his, their losses mutual. Ownership wasn't light. Well, he didn't take anything light. Going against him wasn't just disloyalty. After he helped you, created you, worked with you? It was betrayal. To Dad, and you know what, to me too - there is no crime worse. Isn't that why Judas is frozen in hell with Satan, anyway?"  
  
The metaphorical blows kept coming as Olivier explained that there was no crime worse than betrayal for Remington, and again, Tony had convinced his firstborn son to turn against his father. That betrayal had only been Olivier's though. Tony had never been someone his father was proud of, oddly enough not until he killed him. That part always made him think twice about what he did, because surely everything Remington approved of couldn't be good.  
  
Olivier breathes out again, shaking his head, eyes still on Tony and not entirely sure where he meant to go with that anymore. After clearing his throat and staring at him for a long time he finally finished quietly,   
  
"But I betrayed him anyway, and I still would again, because he tried to own you too. He tried to own Mom. And he thought he owned me, and he got that confused with loving me, and I do blame him for that, Tony."   
  
Even hearing that Olivier would still do the same thing again, and that he did blame their father didn't make Tony feel so great. Maybe it was because it just sounded like something Olivier was supposed to stay instead of how he really felt, even if it was sincere and it was. But Olivier wouldn't get angry with their father, maybe he would never be angry with him, and that means that anger would just get directed at others. Others that were alive and had to deal with it rightfully or not.  
  
"I miss him, I wish it had been different, but he's the first person who would have said holding on to someone after they're gone is insanity. He lost. He did, and I'm glad, because I hate how he treated you. I hate how he manipulated me, to treat you. People aren't objects, and even less is his own son." Olivier's hand comes down in the air, hard, striking at it over the word 'less.'   
  
There's a beat.  
  
"Not that you want to be that."   
  
The scoff is a tiny, little laugh.


	21. Comes with the territory of being a pilot, innit?

The house looks so normal. Hydrangeas, azaleas and sunflowers adorn little boxes on a stone walkway up to the quintessential Dublin cottage of timber, rock and thatch-roof. There were two windows thrown open as if the people inside had nothing to fear, and maybe they didn't. Tony had eliminated their greatest threat, almost five years ago now. That cold day was emblazoned in his memory as much as his brother's: Olivier knew too well that nothing burns so hot as ice.  
  
Shutting the wicker little fence behind him, he focuses not on the flower groves, windows, or roof -- but on the overturned violet bicycle in the front yard, training wheels half off, half off. With those sparkles, it could only belong to Angie. He might not know his sisters well, but even he knew that.   
  
Before he reached the front door, it opened to reveal Angie's father. Olivier paused thinking, I should have expected that. Who left training wheels half off. She was shouting something in the background, joyful and petulant at the same time, but any good humor on Cormac Senzio's face tightened with awkward disapproval, fear (and probably some amount of pity) as he spied Olivier D'Grey on his lawn. The feeling's mutual, he thinks.  
  
What he says instead is, "Afternoon, Cormac. I...called Belle to let her know I was coming?"  
  
But if he was expected, it didn't seem to have changed his welcome. Ridiculous, he thinks, petulant himself. Having promised as he did that he would explain to the girls where their brother was simultaneously with a promise he wouldn't make them come to the manor - what else was he supposed to do but visit them in Ireland?    
  
With an oil stained rag on his shoulders and a wrench in his hands, Cormac was the exact opposite of the young man in front of him. Olivier D'Grey it seemed owned nothing but sharp suits and slightly more casual shirt and pants. Cormac's only suit was the one he wore to funerals. It wasn't exactly a suit he liked to wear, which is why it lay forgotten in the back of his wardrobe. His day to day outfits looked more like he was wearing right now: jeans ripped from use not from fashion (that Belle had kept trying to throw out already), and an old t-shirt from his days in the Royal Air Force.  
  
"'Lo," he greeted, continuing to stand in front of his steps leading to his house. Cormac was not a man who minded his own business, otherwise when he had seen a beautiful Parisian woman standing on the edge of the Eiffel Tower, he would have just left her be. That being said, when it came to Belle's sons, he knew when to stick his nose and when to leave it out. So far his ever growing honker had kept well enough away, mostly at Belle's urging. He knew why she needed and wanted to handle her affairs with Olivier and Antonio.  
  
Tony the youngest was friendly enough, so Cormac was friendly enough back. Olivier, however, had quite the penchant for making his mother cry, and cause her to fall back into a guilt she, and he as well, had worked years to get out of. It wasn't guilt or blame well deserved, for he knew the situation well enough. In his opinion, there was only person to blame and he was already far gone from this world.  
  
The greeting curt in kind, Olivier lifts his hand to straighten his collar. He tried -- he did -- not to glance over the man's outfit, knowing as he did so it would be considered judgmental even when he didn't mean it so, but Cormac had examined him. What was Olivier D'Grey, if not a fair and equal man? (You know, it was amazing how even in Dublin, he could hear his brother's laughter from a jail cell.) Ripped denim and converse never had inspired much confidence in him. Even if he was doing work on a little girls bicycle. He'd learned a long time ago not to get hung up on such sentimental distractions.  
  
"Aye," he nodded, aware that Olivier was being expected. Even if he weren't, he would still be welcome. His daughters loved their brother already. With Angie it wasn't much of a surprise, she loved everybody until they gave her a reason not to, but Carina was more difficult. She didn't like people who were nice to her, she liked people who treated her older than her nine years of age; people she respected. It was a little alarming.  
  
"Your mum's inside. She's making tea."   
  
There was a tiny twitch to his mouth as Olivier considers it, deviating for a moment from wondering about the icon on the man's t-shirt. Belle making tea made about as much sense to him as ... well, the fact that he was there to tell his sisters why their brother was in jail (as best he could, anyway). It was a motherly thing to do, Eliza assured him, to want to make sure he was fed and clothed and bathed and nourished. He had to take her word for it and couldn't even offer her similar assurances. She might have been absent a father once same as he was absent Belle, but his father had never been very "traditional", to say the least. Claude Simmons acting similar to Remington D'Grey was probably written in some holy book as a sign of the end of times.   
  
"Right," Olivier offers, hand coming back down from his collar as his eyes dart back up from the print. "Do you know someone in the force?"  
  
The question kind of tumbled out of him; a remnant of his childish interest in aeronautics (and yes, even as a child he hadn't called them simply "planes"). Taking it back sheepishly would be worse, however, so he just waited. Eager as he was to enter the house and at least talk to people who were glad he was there, he knew Tony wanted him to be nicer to Cormac. And Belle herself, but he swore he was trying on that account. If his brother wanted proof, Olivier was there, wasn't he?   
  
"Comes with the territory of being a pilot innit?" Cormac had assumed that Olivier would already know, despite this being the most words he had ever exchanged with the man. It came with the territory of being a capo of a drug cartel. Olivier cocked an eyebrow at him.  
  
But Cormac realized, or maybe he recognized the look from knowing Belle better than he knew himself, that Olivier hadn't known. It wasn't a secret, at all, so he figured that meant Olivier hadn't checked up on him. Well, he was glad to know that his national insurance number remained private at least.   
  
"Know sumthin about planes then?" He asked when he figured Olivier might have asked out of natural interest instead of polite small talk. He knew it wasn't the latter because they didn't do small talk at all.   
  
"You could say that," Olivier said. The question had only made Olivier smirk as he thinks at least he got to immediately surprise the man the same as he'd been surprised. For all the crisp-accent that he won't mock, he still responds immediately and instinctively, "It does come with the territory of being a pilot, doesn't it?"  
  
Still surprised, he didn't bother trying to hide it. Olivier knew why Cormac had assumed he knew. Belle would have told the man everything she could about Dad. All right, not everything, Olivier thinks with a rueful smile, as he doubts she'd be interested in sharing how they were conceived. The fact that Dad ran better background checks than the police, though? It's not like Cormac would be wrong. He could have looked. He's not even sure why he didn't, except that he'd gotten tired of trying channels behind-Belle's-back. His mother had hid from Dad not once, but twice. The latter was in plain sight, as Remington had wanted her to live, but that didn't mean she would have left her husband and daughters vulnerable.  
  
One swallow away from being downright unpleasant, Olivier turned deliberately as he paused near the door. It weighed on his mind that his father was the one who taught him the 'art of the conversation', but it wasn't going to stop him from satisfying his curiosity on the matter.  
  
"Not, that I was in any governmental agency on it --," he clarifies with the small smile unmoved, "but I do fly."  
  
He nodded once as Olivier used his own words to answer him, keeping a snort at bay. He wasn't surprised that a capo knew a little something about planes, but that he could fly one himself was not common. Then again, he wasn't exactly an expert on the travel and learning habits drug lords now was he? Even more, he knew next to nothing about Olivier D'Grey. The worst part was Belle wasn't any better than him on that front yet either.  
  
"Your mum likes flying too. Don't do it very well but," Cormac shrugged as he shared without any abash.   
  
Not in any government capacity, no, he thought not. He ruled out any military aircraft, hopefully, and asked, "You fly a jet then?"   
  
He was doing that on purpose, Olivier knew. Mentioning Belle over and over again - reminding him she was waiting inside, reminding him he should call her his mother, as if it's inherently disrespectful to call her by her first name alone. Biting on his tongue, Olivier is torn between irritation, and gratitude for the knowledge. Even her second partner knew his mother better than he did, even though technically speaking he should have come first. It was grating. Yet at the same time...at least he had someone to tell him, at least his "mum" had someone there for her.   
  
That was the thing: Olivier truly didn't want to hurt her today, or anymore to be honest, he just wasn't sure how to...(awful as it sounded) stop.   
  
Consider the small talk with Cormac progress then? Some, small progress? With a more genuine smile on his lips at the correct deduction, Olivier nodded.   
  
"Yeah, my own. The Hawker, the 200 series. Twin turbofan engine." Olivier spoke with a tiny bit of sardonic enjoyment: no doubt Cormac was wondering now how a light jet could be used for mass super-secret cargo-shipping. (As if he would ever be dumb enough to load product in his own plane).  
  
"Where'd you fly?" This question was a bit more...well, curious. As Olivier asks it, he turns towards the house and says pointedly, "I assume you were teaching Madre so...where?"   
  
The 'madre' was pointed, but his desire to know more about her life...that wasn't.   
  
Cormac whistled, recognizing the name of the jet well enough. Those beauties went up to five million euros easily. Nothing like flying a fighter plane though, never.   
  
"Mid modest eh?" He asked with a hint of sarcasm. It was definitely smaller than what he expected, but it still packed a wallop. He expected something larger, like a Falcon, 2000 series. Something that was a little more easier to fly.  
  
"'ere? There's an airfield up by Goatstown. Pal owns it, lends me his Cesna TT from time ta time." Simply, Cormac couldn't afford his own plane but damn if that was gon' keep him from flying.  
  
"Stationed in Gioia del Colle in la mia patria, for a time." It was weird, speaking Italian with someone other than his mother and numerous sisters and cousins.  
  
Finally moving to his girl's bicycle, twirling the wrench in his hand, he continued his small reminiscence, after all, Olivier had asked. "But I first taught her how to fly at Marham base in Britain." Nearly lost his wings for it too. Thinking back on it, taking a civilian on a Tornado GR4 was not the greatest of ideas. At that point however, he still remembered with absolute clarity Belle standing with her heels in one hand and holding to the railing with the other, saying she had always wanted to fly. So Cormac had given her just that.  
  
He crouched down, bringing the bicycle closer to him as he commented offhand, "Bit more of a kick than a Hawker."  
  
"Mid." Olivier agreed with a smirk, enjoying the snark more than most would when it was at his expense. Perhaps he'd been a bit unkind to Cormac, before. Perhaps he'd only been thinking he had some large plane as a joke about compensation in the making. It was hard to tell; for all their simple life here, Olivier wasn't fooled into thinking they -didn't- judge him for his profession.  
  
The double negative tugged something in his chest, and his hand came up to rest on the window frames instead as he watched the man work. Nodding absently, he tried not to cringe at the short, crisp accent on his mother tongue -- even if the language was flawless in the way only a native speaker could manage. That Cormac was Italian he'd known. He might not have done a background check, but five minutes with Angie had given him as much of the basics as Hans had once gotten from Eliza's best friend.   
  
"Bene," Olivier responded, dryly, "the Cesna's a beauty." A bit smaller, but Olivier knew that with all attendant practical considerations: they were flying the same plane. The Hawker Beech and Cesna Corvalis were nothing more than brand names at this point for a company that had merged in his childhood.   
  
"A bit," Olivier chuckles, "Though I'm a bit partial to the brand calling itself 'King Air', obviously."  
  
Let no one tell him Olivier D'Grey couldn't poke fun at himself too. It was one of the pitfalls of Tony's absence: he was in danger of taking himself too seriously.   
  
"Wunder why," Cormac commented without looking up from the bicycle, a small smirk on his lips. He appreciated a man with thick skin that could poke fun at himself, without taking himself seriously. He couldn't deny it helped him separate the boy from the father, despite never knowing his father.  
  
Turning back to the open door, he looked through to the kitchen, finding it strange to think his mother was that close and he hadn't gone in yet. After twenty-six years, his patience was something of a marvel.   
  
"I'd love to take the girls up," he adds, swiveling as he walks in to call back, "let me know. As...I assume you'd want to be there."  
  
Looking up as Olivier turned to address him again, Cormac took the wrench out of his mouth and then nodded gruffly, "Think we culd manage that, aye."  
  
See, Belle? He wasn't a common stubborn arse all the time. Just when it suited him. He watched Olivier as he walked in before returning back to the bicycle and, whistling an Irish jig. Olivier's hand slapped at his thigh as he nods to Cormac and then slips inside, breaching the small distance until he was knocking on the frame of the wood door to tell her he was there .   
  
"Buon pomeriggio, madre," Olivier offered, quieter than the first time he'd said 'hi mom', eyes on the tea kettle on the stove as if to avoid simply staring at her.   
  
Belle found it a marvel that their voices carried into the house even a bit. It did not escape her that until now their interactions were nothing more than short greetings with curt nods. Then again, her own interactions with Olivier weren't exemplary either but after going to Paris again and talking to him there she hoped things would take a turn for the better.  
  
She busied herself in the kitchen so it would be difficult to overhear, and didn't notice she had tucked her hair behind her ear to clear the way until she caught herself on the surface of the black microwave door. Tucking it back out, she checked the time and picked up the baking pan from the cooling rack and set it down in the island. She was dusting the dessert with confectioner sugar when Olivier walked in.  
  
"Ciao, Olivier," she greeted with a smile, her gaze flicking to the front of the house for a moment, as if that were enough to tell her whether or not Cormac behaved. She looked back to the task at hand and finished dusting the sugar.  
  
"Sorry for the mess," she gestured, which she used doubly as a way to get all the dirty bowls and utensils into the sink, and the squeezed lemons into the trash.  
  
Unsure why it was she apologized, Olivier lifted both a brow and a hand. The latter waves it off without comment, but then, the former was a comment if he was honest with himself. He arched that eyebrow in wondering why she was sorry for that. He arched that eyebrow wondering if Belle would ever stop apologizing to him, and he put it down hurried to look to the floor, feeling queer.   
  
"I've made lemon bars," she explained as she looked at him again and noticed his eyes on the  kettle, "oh yes, the tea. Is chamomile fine?"   
  
"Molto," Olivier says, small genuine smile reappearing as he looks back to her, "I assume Nonna told you lemon's my favorite, then?"   
  
Her or Tony. He couldn't fathom she wouldn't have asked. He had business meetings he was more prepared for than this, which probably explained the odd stirring in his stomach. No one else, in his entire life, had he ever met without looking in to their preferences or background in someway. Even the first day he met Tony he'd made sure to get some basics, and he'd only been six at the time. Such simple questions helped immensely; it put people at ease, made them feel valued, made them feel listened to, made them feel important. When a person feels important, there's no end to what you can get them to do.  
  
Belle was his mother, though, as everyone kept reminding him. No tricks were necessary -- no manipulations, no games -- not to make her important to him.   
  
"Oh here--," he stepped quickly inside to pick the kettle up for her, noticing the floury, sugared hands were full. She had long fingers, he thinks absurdly.   
  
"I'll get it. Cups are...?"   
  
Olivier trails off, looking at the numerous cupboards without the faintest idea.  
  
Belle nodded, she had been in touch with Euphemie again when Olivier and Tony came to visit her together, "She mentioned it. She remembered I had two lemons a day when I was pregnant with you. I ate them like an orange." She made a face, practically tasting the sour acidity on the back of her tongue.  
  
"I don't eat them like that anymore," she chuckled as she grabbed a knife and started to cut the lemon bars into, well, bars. Maybe she was trying too hard but it couldn't hurt. Olivier's previous criticism was that she appeared not to try at all, so.  
  
"Grazie, second to the left of the sink," she looked over her shoulder and motioning with her chin and pointing with her lips because her hands were full as she cut the bars and moved them to a plate. Olivier nods, following the head-jerks to pull out not only tea-cups but napkins, plates and sugar spoons. They make a quaint set: matching flowers, yellow glass and only chipped in one place. Obviously well taken care of, he wonders if she'd told him to get their 'good' china out. He's not sure how he would feel about it if she was trying to impress him. Doing so was beyond the scope of anyone who wasn't royalty, but that was his father's fault.   
  
And maybe just the fact she wants to was impressive enough.  
  
"So you take your tea with lemon instead of sugar then?" If he even drank tea, that was. Belle hadn't been a fan of it until she moved to the U.K. fifteen years ago.   
  
Olivier grins, "Per favore." He nods while he speaks, at ease when he sets the glassware down. Taking the care to arrange it, he folds napkins to a perfect crease and places spoons atop before turning the pot forty-five degrees. There's an art to it, just as there was an art to conversation, to dress, and to...well, manipulation. They work in tandem. His hand remains on the spout. Hot beneath his thumb, whatever he's thinking on, it wasn't this light, grace-spun tea pot. Olivier turns the spout another two degrees, throwing the balance and takes hand back as if burned. Sitting, quick as if he's concerned he'd be noticed, he turns away from it himself before he could change his mind.  
  
"I do still eat them like that," Olivier said. Still, as if he was doing it when she was pregnant, but in some ways he had, right? The conversational tone was a breeze. "But only sometimes. It tends to be impolite at dinner if I'm snatching wedges out of water goblets."   
  
Belle nods, wiping the knife clean of sugar after she had finished setting a few on a plate, and then grabbed a lemon out of the fruit bowl and cut some slices for the tea, as well as some wedges.  
  
She brought the plate of bars and lemons to the table, noticing the almost perfect way the cups and napkins and teapot were set. Belle was reminded of her childhood lessons, and how her mother would hit her behind the knees with two rulers taped together if she had done wrong. She quickly left the memory behind, as she didn't fancy imagining what Olivier might have gotten if he had gotten a napkin placement wrong.  
  
"Have some wedges then, no risk of being improper here," she chuckled once with the truth of it. Cormac used more vulgar language than she knew what to do with half of the time. Thankfully those years of living in Rome managed to scrub away most of the noble born French lady out of her.   
  
She waited for the tea to steep a little longer, smiling at Olivier before remembering he was here to explain the news to the girls.  
  
"Angie's outside, I'm surprised she didn't run into you. Carina's currently trying to get past the parental controls," she explained, half exasperated and half endearing.  
   
"Parental controls?" Olivier's question was in sheepish ignorance. Hit by the strong feeling reminiscent of when his little brother explained chores to him, he decides maybe he didn't need to know. A hand waves it off, then reaches for the plate.  
  
There was a lemon in his palm, half peeled as Olivier starts to rewrap his mind around explaining to a seven and nine year old where Tony was, when --  
  
"How are you?"  
  
That stills him, but only because he fights a flash of an urge to jam the lemon wedge in his mouth whole. Belle might have meant it when she said he didn't need to be proper here, but his actively misbehaving was a different story. Far from being only habit, propriety was his nature. That and yeah, ripping people's throats out.   
  
Olivier smiles at the inner contradiction. Then he finishes slicing the wedge to pop in his mouth, eating manner halfway between propriety and four year old as he shrugs a shoulder. Was that enough of an answer?   
  
Despite the fact that Belle had never seen Olivier as a toddler (and hell knows she didn't need the reminder, neither of them did), as he peeled a lemon wedge and shrugged, Belle thought she could see the toddler right then, dressed very similarly even, and her smile was fond despite being short.  
  
She reached over to pour the tea, back ramrod straight from years of habit, but aside from a few glances to make sure he didn't spill, Belle continued to look at him, waiting for a vocal response. She didn't pretend to think Olivier was like his father in every aspect but it was foolish to pretend that the man who had raised him didn't give him his mannerisms. And Remington always spoke when he was good and ready.  
  
Apparently not, for Belle still eyed him. His eyes cast down as he tries not to think surly that *Dad* never made him talk about his feelings.   
  
"Tony's bail was denied this morning," he said by way of explaining the shrug, "or else he'd be with me."  
  
 Oh, was that out of the country? Look, he'd never said he was -surprised- it was denied.   
  
"But other than that," as if there was an other than that Olivier thinks as he swallows the lemon and sucks his jaw in, licking the juice off his bottom lip, "I'm well. Oh, that and Stefanie, sure Tony's mentioned -- anyway, she's doing better too, which decreases my potential headaches significantly."  
  
Belle nodded, lips pursing but she wasn't surprised. Tonio was the very definition of a flight risk without adding in the fact he had Olivier for a brother. When he had first come to see her years ago, without Olivier, he had left when she went to answer the phone in another room.   
  
"He has," she nodded, "well not so much as mentioned Stefanie as dedicated her a soliloquy in form of a sonnet." Belle chuckled. Olivier chuckled too. The sounds were similar, a heartening thought, though both peter off quickly. He offers under his breath as an afterthought, "Bet that was the cleaned-up version."  
  
Mother's ears, and what not.   
  
So he was supposed to...ask back now, right?   
  
"Yourself?"   
  
"Worried," she admitted honestly with a shrug, "but well other than that."  
  
Shifting slacks against the hardwood table that Cormac probably built with his own two hands with wood scrapped from building a shelter to puppies (or something like that, Olivier was sure), he sits up and drops a free hand to knee. He didn't want to worry her. He hadn't wanted to make her cry either, though, just for her to...understand, how hurt he was. It had never really occured to him her absence might have hurt her too. Not outside his wildest fantasies and...well, Madonna knew what Dad said about fantasies.   
  
Hand frees his knee and reaches the back of his neck as he rubs and says, "Tony could be out now if he'd...let me take care of things," killed the detective, he meant, and wiped the department files clean, "but he asked me to...'do it right'."   
  
Belle knew what he meant by take care of things. How often had she sat back and left Remington to take care of things? It had been all too easy to look the other way and allow him to make her life, their life, easier. Blatant ignorance was something she could no longer do.  
  
But could she, in full knowledge of what it entailed, not speak a word if Olivier 'took care of things' if it got Tony out of jail? Easily. It was a hot topic of debate between her husband and her. You would think a half Irish, half Italian catholic living in Dublin would harbor some distrust for the government.   
  
"He has a lot of faith in you," Belle said with a small nod, merely stating the obvious. It was clear that there were very few people Tony admired and trusted more than his older brother.  
  
Olivier had a very hard time not putting legitimate air quotes on the words "do it right". Hand fell down again as she spoke. There was no holding back his smirk.   
  
"And I will, Belle. I swear. You...," Olivier struggles for a moment, fingers itchy around his knee and then he suddenly stills, and at once he knows what to say and meets her gaze.   
  
"You won't lose him again. I promise." Olivier D'Grey was not in the habit of broken promises, especially not his word. (A man's word is his bond). "Tony leaves...a lot, but he comes back. Usually without a real apology and he steals your bourbon as he asks if it's okay, but he does come back. And I don't fail. I..."  
  
This time his hesitation is only a moment, and he hasn't broken eye contact, "I adapt."   
  
The small smile was back.   
  
He had cut to the center of Belle's worry the same way a surgeon might make an incision with a scalpel: precise and practiced. She looked down at her tea, thankful she hadn't reached for it yet, before forcing herself to look back at him. She smiled, a little bitter, knowing that running was an instinct that could be attributed to her.  
  
"I can't lose you again either, Olivier," she admitted, voice soft as she kept her eyes from watering (mon Dieu was she crying about everything these days, she had to regain herself again).   
  
It seemed it was his turn to sit in still patience while she broke eye contact. Olivier has more practice with that. Ironic, though, the last time he'd been so physically uneasy with a conversation was with his father. Desperate to reassure was a state for a petitioner that had suited Dad well, but from his son he didn't suffer the emotions. So, Olivier had strove to instead be the one petitioned, exactly as Dad wanted and intended.   
  
It was queer to think he'd succeeded in that now with his other parent, as his mother asserts needing him to stay too.   
  
His gaze flickers over her shoulder, as if he could will an interruption from Angie all boyant and vibrant, or Carina triumphant and secretive. (Whatever parental controls those were, he had a feeling they were changing frequently). When none came, he forces his gaze to flicker back.   
  
Quiet, Olivier admits, "You didn't lose me. I was taken away."   
  
Her heart literally skipped a best, in the most joyous and pleasant way imaginable, upon hearing those words. Olivier had first come, with sardonic dry words calling her mom out of spite and blaming her for abandoning him, something he was well in his right to no matter what Cormac said. That the correction was a technicality didn't escape her, but it was a monumental to her. Subtle differences were the most important ones with D'Greys (as the most obvious ones tended to be fake).   
  
It was doubly difficult not to cry.  
  
It was semantics as of course, at this moment a federal magistrate had done the same thing to Tony, but he felt it important to say. The fact that Tony left had been tempered somewhat when he'd known it was Dad he was running away from, even if he'd nursed doubts. (And was right too, because Tony had been afraid of him even if he never was going to admit that now. Olivier can't blame him. What his fists had done to his little brother...he'd scared himself.)  
  
Of course the other half of those semantics were that she'd given him up, chosen to keep Tony over him, but it's not as if that's not the same choice he'd make.  
  
She exhaled, feeling a sudden weight off her shoulders as she took the teacup in her hands. This meant...a lot to her. Her eyebrows raised as she looked at him as if silently asking whether or not he knew it did, before she looked back down to her tea and took a sip.  
  
Olivier cleared his throat, feeling a strange urge to talk warring every natural instinct to excuse himself to find the girls. Instead he reaches for his tea cup.  
  
"I know I," he takes a warm swallow, "remind you of him." It was awkwardly put, as Olivier spies his pinky out, and pictures Dad holding the cup. His tongue pushes against the back of his teeth. And after all he had just admitted he'd kill...  
  
...well anyone, if it got Tony out. No, he hadn't used so many words, but Belle was smarter than she looked.  
  
"And I know that's to be expected," Olivier gave a little shrug, not sorry. With his eyes back on hers, he asks, "I just want to know...do I frighten you?"  
  
The question was simple, sharp and static. Olivier doesn't move.  
  
Caught off guard by the question, Belle realized it wasn't too far off base. Olivier did remind Belle of his father, and she had spent half of her life running and hiding from him in fear of what he might do to her. Olivier wanted to know if he reminded her of Remington to that extent.  
  
She put the teacup down again, ignoring the lemon bars for now and interlocked her fingers on her knees.  
  
"You've given me no reason to fear you, Olivier," she answered as honestly as she could.  
  
That was fair, Olivier thinks. But then, if he was giving reasons to fear him, it was too late: he didn't offer promises unfulfilled. Most didn't need his warning. Most only needed his last name.  
  
"When you were both younger, I worried what being half vampire would mean for you both, I feared for Tony," A worried not unfounded, given that Tony was in prison for right now, "and I wasn't subtle about it." She paused for a moment.  
  
"I'm not very brave," she admitted, voice cracking a little, "I run from things a lot. Breaking news!," she poked fun at herself, smirking simply, "I know. But it doesn't take bravery to not be afraid of you. Dieu, that sounds awful doesn't it?" she racked her brain as she tried to explain herself better.  
  
"You're my son," she said aloud, something she hadn't yet done until now, "how can I hope to build a relationship with you if I fear you? You can't frighten me Olivier. You can hurt me, you can break my heart if you wanted," she shrugged because it was true, but then she shook her head.  
  
"You can't frighten me. Call it a mother thing, yes, even an absentee mother thing."  
  
A sardonic twist appears to his smile, and he speaks first with his eyes back on the lip of his cup, pinky swiveling across it.  
  
"I scared my brother." It was spoken with a dead weight. Unspoken were the words 'I almost killed him', but only Tony (and his sponser) knew them and he wasn't going to offer them now. Enough heartwrenching (heartwarming?) moments for one day. Her heart was going too fast already. Olivier's blood always ran on the side of cool, but his mouth was dry thinking how warm hers had to be with a heart pounding that hard.   
  
"So I...wouldn't test me, on that front." What was it Tony would have said? Challenge accepted! "I'm too likely to rise to that bait."  
  
A shiver slips down his spine but he wasn't trying to threaten her, honestly. He just was...warning. He had nothing else left but caution when it came to his family. He'd turned on Dad, he almost adds, and while Dad wasn't scared...he was betrayed. But that wasn't the point. Belle's point was she wasn't frightened of him hurting her. The only people who were not frightened of pain...were those who had been hurt the worst before.   
  
So maybe not wildest fantasies, then.  
  
Olivier lifts his eyes back up only after  finishing the lemon wedge. He said, "I'm glad. I don't want to scare you. Or Cormac, or the girls..." or anyone, he adds silently, except those who deserved it. Aye, there's the snag.   
  
"I should find the girls," he said, snatching up the napkin and rubbing the juice off. His voice was back to normal, polite. If anything was changed, it was his eyes. They were clear skies. 


	22. To Print or Not To Print, That is the Question

Amalie sipped from her coffee as she stared at the final draft of her article on her computer screen. She hadn’t moved from the spot in hours, despite having finished some time ago. Reading and re-reading, Amalie was stuck not on what she would name it (her editor would no doubt change the title anyways, if he even accepted it), but on whether or not she should even print it. A couple of keyboard shortcuts and the entire thing would be deleted, gone forever. It didn’t escape her that she was being used to get this story out there, but it wasn’t as if the people wouldn’t know eventually. This trial was sure to be televised as it was already widely followed. A murder charge on the brother of France’s biggest crime boss? Yeah, there were hundreds of other reports and journalists slaving over their computers and their contacts for a chance to get more of the story. So far, the police wasn’t saying anything and nothing was leaked save what Olivier D’Grey himself wanted getting out to paint Tony in a better light.  
  
To Amalie, being a reporter had never been about getting the scoop first, it was about getting it accurately and then making sure the truth was delivered to the masses. People really took the freedom of the press, and the freedom of information for granted. Right now there were hundreds of different articles on paper and the web all talking about Tony’s arrest and impending trial, and all generally said the same thing: younger brother of ‘alleged’ crime boss Antonio D’Grey had been arrested for the murders of two bottom feeding criminals. No one said the nature of the murder, and no one else had the pictures to prove it.  
  
Passing a hand through hair she hadn’t washed in three days, Amalie leaned her head on her hand as she looked at the two pictures again. The first was the picture that Ansel had given her. Taken with a phone camera, the picture showed Tony in all his hybrid glory, feeding on one of the men. The next picture, one she managed to scrub up from her contact in the police department, showed the crime scene after. Both men ripped apart, torn limb from limb like she used to do to her Barbie dolls. The difference was, she didn’t move on to actual people. Amalie knew that the muggle police had been baffled; no human could do this with their bare hands. Honestly, Amalie was surprised any judge would have heard a word against D’Grey for fear of the repercussions. It was a pleasant surprise, a reminder that corruption didn’t work itself into the hearts of -everyone-, but it would mean very little if the people didn’t come to fear Tony as a killer. Amalie had met Olivier and Tony within 24 hours of each other, and Olivier gave off a (charming) wickedness that his younger brother didn’t. Even having an idea of what Tony did and could be capable of, Amalie found herself agreeing with her friend Daniella: Tony was endearing. Under the rock-hard body of an extremely handsome man was a very eager little boy, with very bad jokes about her stature. It was almost like you were torn between wanting to use his body like a stripper pole and wanting to cuddle him close and tell him everything was going to be okay. His effect on men, well that she didn’t know but he wasn’t entirely charmless on them either. Coordinated and coached by a defense attorney and his older brother, Tony could very well have the jury hooked on him instantly.  
  
Amalie had an opportunity to provide an almost unbiased view on the events. She said almost unbiased because of course her feelings on the cartel could be quoted, word for word, on any of the other articles she had written about it and published online. (Those her editor definitely didn’t publish in the paper; not a direct word against the man who was filling his pockets with enough money to keep a mistress shacked up in Monaco). This wasn’t about the cartel, this wasn’t about D’Grey, father or son, this was about Tony. It was really sad that everyone else seemed to be missing that. And though she spoke as objectively as she could, a few little biting comments had managed to slip in because of course, she couldn’t help it.  
  
Publishing this, however, would make life difficult for Tony if he got out of jail. Still better than being in jail of course but if this picture got distributed and went viral, which it could very well happen, there was no coming back. Everyone who recognized him would see him with a metaphorical ‘murderer’ written in bold red on his forehead before he had any chance to explain himself. Everyone judged a book by the cover first, because the cover is the only thing you see, but how many would be willing to read the pages of a man (rightfully) accused of murder?  
  
Amalie bit on the nail of her thumb, having tried to read the same line for a good half hour already. Leaning back against her chair, she pulled her leg out from under her as it started falling asleep, and brought both knees up to her chest. Her painted toes wiggled in the air before gripping the edge of her seat as she hugged her legs to keep them in the position. Laying her chin on her knees, she imagined she looked just as she had when her mother would pick out a book from the shelf and read to her. Her mother’s favorite, and Amalie’s favorite was Wicked. Elphaba had become something of a heroine for Amalie when she was younger. Looking back at it now, Amalie wouldn’t use the word heroine to describe her, but she was still one of the Amalie’s favorite literary characters. Though if she ended up asking herself what would Elphaba do in this situation, the solutions wouldn’t be particular helpful.  
  
She tried asking herself what her mother would do, but found no answer within herself. It was shameful that she could more easily figure out what a fictional character would do in her position than her own mother. Amalie knew how her mother would feel: she would be disappointed in her for being associated with the cartel to begin with even if it was just the most minimal of interactions, just as her father would be now if he ever learned of it. In times of doubt, Amalie went with her gut. Raising her hands to the keyboard, she pressed two keys.   
  
Ctrl + P.


	23. Who Was (R. D'Grey) to You?

People aren't objects? Could he say that again one more time? Repeat it in a mantra until he realizes he was a bigger hypocrite than Tony had ever been? Tony chuckled and shook his head, which was timed perfectly with Olivier's own scoff and laugh. He was right, Tony didn't want to be Remington D'Grey's son. Back when he was a kid, before he knew about his father, before he even met Olivier, Tony used to daydream about meeting his father. Mafia vampire crime boss never made the list of things he imagined him to be.  
  
After stretching out to Tony and pushing his shoulder away in a mockery of a teasing gesture, Olivier bit down hard on his own lip. Rubbing over it hard he finally said, small,   
  
"Madre isn't to blame for why I grew up without her. If only because if she'd chosen differently you wouldn't have been born, but it's...it's more than that. I understand why she wanted to get away. I understood why you did, hell, I paid for you to leave. I'm not angry with her, not anymore. I just don't know if I can call her incredible, because I don't know her. I don't have the memories you do, fratello. And I don't think making me angrier at Dad actually is going to do anything, but make me angrier in general and well, Belle's the only parent I have left to yell at. I'd like to stop. Especially considering our sisters."   
  
Carina and Angie were bright lights in his mind; he knew how to be a sibling, and he knew how to care in a way about family that Dad didn't. He said it, but Dad didn't know how to mean it. If he had, he could have forgiven Belle, and he could have loved Tony -- and Dad hadn't truly done either.   
  
As if Olivier had read his previous thoughts, he chose to address them by saying that getting him mad at his father would only make him angrier in general. Tony had to admit than an angry Olivier was something the world would be better off without. He had been cut by that blade before, he'd rather not face it again.  
  
When he felt Olivier's hand on his shoulder, Tony hadn't realized how still and stiff he had gotten, almost as if rigor mortis had taken effect hours ago. Trying to force himself to relax only made him hunch down his shoulders, but nothing else really moved. Cut him a break okay? He was sensitive. Prison hadn't made him hardcore or anything.  
  
For most, remaining so staunch and silent as if determined to be and unable to help it at once, when listening to a soliloquy waxing on about a person they loathed? It was troubling. Ignore the fact they asked for it. Ignore that they acted like if you ignored them it was a betrayal of their being -- even more so than your poetry about their self-declared arch-nemesis. After all, Olivier thought he'd been pretty fair. At best he said Dad was a complex, remorseless business man who turned his back on humanity and showed some signs of goodness sometimes. No, it wasn't as exciting and justifying as Tony's vivid painting of the devil incarnate, but he hadn't said Dad had unicorns and birds doing all his housework while he sung and danced with brooms either. To hear no response as he talked was worrisome from anyone, but from Tony? On this subject?'  
  
Olivier wants to say it was more worrying than anything. But the truth was he was relieved. Lectures on humanity he could take. His brother continuing to put him in the position to defend Dad against the vitriol...No.   
  
(Yet, how could he not defend him, though? Olivier knew he still loved him; if he was Satan, what did that say about him?)   
  
Smile warm on his own face as he rubs with his other hand over his eyes again he speaks quietly. The one on Tony's shoulder, he squeezes, hard as he suddenly says point-blank,  
  
"And you, need to stop telling me you should just give up on your morality, fratello. The fact you think about what would be good or evil - what is right and wrong - that you care about humanity, the fact you give a damn about people instead of objects, it's the biggest difference there is between you and Dad. I need that. More importantly, you need it. I am, getting you out of here, but I expect you to lecture me all the way home. The more pop-culture references and creative nicknames the better."  
  
Tony laughed a bit, "Right..." He nodded his head and looked down at his hands again before shrugging.  
  
"I'm in jail for double homicide and I'm the one who has the better morals," Tony smirked, "don't you ever get tired of being lectured by a hypocrite?"  
  
Hand squeezing his brother's shoulder even tighter as he realizes the tenseness beneath his thumb, like Tony was preparing himself to be punched, Olivier tried another laugh in his relief. It sounded better.  
  
"Nope. Though, double homicide of criminals who wouldn't have hesitated to kill you either, Tonio."   
  
"Maybe," Tony decided, nodding his head though he had already heard it and a thousand other varieties of excuses as to why his killing of those criminals was justified. At least it was better than the speech of victim vs victimizer. For certain obvious reasons, he wasn't too fond of being labeled a victim. Those days were behind him.  
  
"Not to mention, if you had successfully stopped yourself they'd have told Roswell too. If he had one more reason to be suspicious of us, it's doubtful he'd be dead right now. So," he clapped his brother's shoulder again and pushed gently, "it's not exactly hypocrisy. The people I took out for that organization were..." Olivier grits his teeth. "...mostly innocent."   
  
"Don't strain yourself now," Tony teased when he described the people he had killed in name of their not-so-holy crusade as kind of innocent. That was as good as it was going to get with Olivier.   
  
"But point is, your morality and insistence on church-well they're the only things I can think of that have ever made me think I might have hope after all. So really it's purely selfish, fratello. All about me."  
  
He bumps Tony's shoulder after he releases it, smile small and mocking tease too honest for much laughter. "King Olivier." Olivier mutters, he shakes his head and he scoffs all at once--but he chuckles too.  
  
"Okay King Olivier," Tony laughed once, "so do you need to be lectured about something? Confess to me your sins and I shall absolve them...kind of...no, not really huh?" Quite the opposite actually, he was usually the one trying to assign the blame and make people feel the shame.   
  
"I'm sorry."  
  
Olivier cocked an eyebrow. Another apology?, it seemed to ask, as if apologizing between the two brothers weren't such rare occasions they could count the sum total of events on their fingers. It was true though, that Tony had apologized the last time he was here.   
  
"Two apologies in two visits? You know," Olivier teases to stall and hide the fact he was genuinely thinking at the moment, "it might go against all my beliefs, but I daresay prison is looking good for you." Why was it they always teased each other about the worst facts, the ones that stung bitter most?   
  
"And sensitivity would look good on you, you should try it sometime," Tony countered back with a smirk. He thought it a little more mature than his natural instinct to stick his tongue out at his brother and give him the finger. It was only slightly more mature though. Did he at least get credit for trying?  
  
Did he want to ask his brother what he was apologizing for this time? Olivier doesn't want an apology he can't accept, Tony needing to say it or not. Selfish was one trait he never denied, in his defense.   
  
Still, he breathes out and nods before saying lightly, "Actually I don't need a lecture right now - I need someone to explain to me how it is a judge thinks that giving me a donation to one of my charity foundations is the same thing as giving me my brother back. Or rather, why his esteemed magistrate thinks that's a wise course of action."   
  
As Olivier switched the topic, or rather came back towards a topic that Tony had already planned to deviate from, Tony realized his brother didn't really want to hear it. Maybe he already had an idea of what he wanted to apologize for, or maybe he felt like Tony didn't need to apologize but if he had money right now, he would bet on the former. The only form of currency on him however was the cigarettes he kept winning from Tiny.  
  
"You don't need anyone to explain that to you, Oli, you know exactly why they did that," Tony shook his head and leaned back against the wall again, and then considered both points of conversation over.  
  
"Have they set a date for the trial yet? I'm getting heavily impatient. And irked."  
  
Olivier did know why they'd done that. They were trying to appease him, getting (rightly) worried about the fact they were dallying around with his brother's life. He didn't need anymore provocation, lecture be damned frankly; he'd scheduled a meeting with the magistrate that afternoon. Or rather, he'd decided to go. Kings didn't make appointments. They were courted.   
  
"No," Olivier said, eyebrow still raised as he surveys his brother. "They're in the midst of reviewing and deciding upon a motion to dismiss Salvant filed. Judge Reneau has graciously agreed to consider it at my personal request."   
  
"Ah," Tony nodded, feeling that was something Salvant, as his attorney, should have discussed with him. But because Salvant was under no illusions of who he was really answering to in this trial, Tony saw his attorney the bare minimum.  
  
The trouble was that damn photograph, Olivier thinks. The trouble was, even the most corrupt of judges who had released worse criminals than his brother before at such requests and clerks who had destroyed evidence before -- they had a hard time seeing that and just pretending they didn't.   
  
Eyes casting back up, he adds a bit softer, "Is there anything else I can do?"   
  
Suddenly irked, he turned his head and told Olivier, "Yeah. Can you tell Salvant to actually come and talk to me with all these things, you know, like an attorney?"  
  
So he could actually be aware of all these things without His Majestic Majesty having to come to the jail to inform him.  
  
"Oh yeah, tell Bri to bring my tablet next time, I forgot to tell her. I need to show her the wonders of Kill Bill."  
  
Olivier's lips had twitched up at the first bare little 'ah', and he couldn't help but think now that maybe if Tony had not made it perfectly clear he had a deep, sustaining moral objection to the way his attorney would be receiving his paycheck, Salvant would stop by. Well that and--  
  
"You do realize he and his wife are going through a divorce because she had an affair, right? Granted, I mostly side with her on this one considering he pays for his brother's drug habit," that Olivier in no way helped him sustain, obviously, "instead of her, you know, health-care but--still, I wouldn't doubt it if he thinks you *did* sleep with her at this point."  
  
He was only part-ways kidding.   
  
"It's not my fault he couldn't keep his wife satisfied, and it's definitely not my fault he has such a lousy poker face for an attorney. Should have never let me know where it hurts...though yes, I was being a dick that day," he paused and then added before his brother could correct him, "more so than usual I mean."  
  
"But si, fratello, I'll inform him. I think he was coming by sometime today or tomorrow anyway." And by 'think' he meant he was going to order Salvant to pretend so, but Olivier digressed. He laughs out.  
  
"Kill Bill? ...Well, yes, that's definitely Bri's type of movie-," he pauses to take a drag on the cigarette again, blowing to the side to avoid dousing his brother, before saying pointedly, "But where exactly are you expecting to get the free WiFi in here?"   
  
He nodded and then shook his head at his brother's poor knowledge of Tony's gadgets, "My movies are -on- the tablet, brother, and in hundreds of my memory cards that are stored alphabetically in my tablet case. I need no Wi-Fi."  
  
"You know," Olivier posits deciding to think Salvant's poker playing for another moment and thus offers instead, "you would think something that was invented twenty years ago would have been updated magically and the Wizarding world would already be claiming it was their design, but. Then again I suppose hundreds of memory cards is pretty incredible when you consider you own every single movie ever created by humankind."  
  
And WizardKind, as it were, his eyebrows add with a wiggle and tease. Sighing as he caught a glimpse of his watch, Olivier stubbornly resigns himself to Tony's infamous 'five more minutes' and doesn't mention it. All he really all he wants to spend the rest of the day doing was sitting here, eating Daniella's cookies with his brother and watching bad movies; it was a decent compromise, all right?   
  
"As for Salvant," he returns after a swallow, "I wouldn't bet against his poker playing. He's been unquestionably successful for your case already; the State hasn't been able to produce a weapon, obviously, and technically speaking drinking blood off a dead guy isn't against French law." Breathing out, Olivier adds quickly, "Though don't go to the prison's gym, all right? Last thing we need is the State adding a guard as a witness because you got in a macho bench-press contest and demonstrated that yeah, you're more than strong enough to not need a weapon. Even if it is entrapment."   
  
"Wizards don't even have TV yet, though I hear Amalie's life goal is to create the first Wizarding TV station. Can you imagine?" Tony hummed, thinking how entertaining that would finally be. Wizards had radio after all, what was so bad about TV? They could make Wizarding soap operas. And movies! Love and  
  
Quidditch! Goblins vs Gnomes! Dragon Wars! The possibilities were endless! Maybe he should think about this project more seriously once he was out of prison.  
  
"There's no denying he's good at what he does," he shrugged and scoffed as he thought forensics should have realized no sort of weapon could cause those wounds. The first time they were calling it a wild animal attack except of course there was nothing that big around for hundreds of miles and it couldn't have gone undetected. When Tony had been called a beast in college, he was sure they hadn't meant that.  
  
"Sigh, but what am I supposed to do? I'm just getting flabby," he lifted his arms and then tried to jiggle his arms, and then poked at his stomach.  
  
"Even better," Olivier countered with a tiny chuckle, "if the motion fails and you look physically weak to the jury."   
  
Flabby, the horror! It was ridiculous in any case: Olivier wasn't sure it was possible for them to gain fat-cells without compensation in muscle, but he was certain it took a hell of a lot more than a few weeks without a gym. One drop of blood and Tony's body would begin toning again irregardless of how many hours he'd spent at the gym. Could they talk about that? Except-hadn't discussing Dad been difficult enough?   
  
Olivier clears his throat and starts, warily, "About that, though." His eyebrow arches. "It's been weeks, Tonio--I know," his hand goes over his chest, "better than anyone that you might want to ignore it - you might be really good at ignoring it and saying it's not there, but you have, to be craving by now. Physiologically speaking."   
  
As if the jury cared...actually, yes, he knew that they did. Tony sighed again, this time genuinely instead of merely saying the word aloud, and held his chin in the palm of his hand. Manipulating the jury, manipulating the judge, manipulating the evidence: justice was a tricky and funny little thing in this world. And by little he of course meant enormous and faulted, but better than anarchy.  
  
Tony frowned, knowing where Olivier was going with his sentence before it was even half-completed. He inclined his head, nodding once then twice.  
  
"Yeah, I had a feeling this...antsy-ness was more than simple boredom," he frowned, unsure whether or not antsy-ness was actually a word. Sometimes he wondered how he had ever gotten published then he remembered his editor was half in love with him anyways and it all dawned on him. Looks could get you through a lot in life. Not everything, but a considerable amount.  
  
"You said it yourself though, the weaker I look the better," his smirk didn't quite reach his eyes on that statement, mostly because of the problem he had with the work 'weak'. He had chosen flabby for a reason.  
  
Antsy, yes, that was a perfect word to describe it actually. With a quick jerk of his head Olivier resettled his gaze on his brother, convincing himself easily it was better spoken aloud irregardless of anything else. Admitting you had a problem was step one in any of Tony's favorite twelve-step courses, wasn't it? Even the Bible's first commandment is that you admit there is one Lord and God to be worshipped above all. You couldn't get farther if you didn't admit that.  
  
"True." Olivier echoed, because his brother was quoting him and he wasn't going to disagree with himself (obviously). He would clarify, however.   
  
"Though it probably won't assuage a third murder on the same M.O. from within these walls." And he wished he was joking, but he wasn't. Besides, at that point he would take drastic measures - the type his brother kept promising to lecture him on again one day- to ensure his brother wasn't spending the rest of his life in a cell.   
  
After another long drawl on the cigarette and waving his hand to clear the smoke, he used the tip to point at his brother when he spoke again.   
  
"I understand not feeding with Briana, as you don't know her, and even if you did with Stefanie, her blood is...different. But." He lowers the hand not holding the cigarette and turns his wrist to land in his lap, as he continues easily, "I have a bag with me. In my pocket."  
  
How did he tell Olivier that he had actually been hoping to get the blood entirely out of his system so he could stop drinking it? He knew his brother and Stefanie and apparently the world because everyone was crazy, wanted him to master his need to drink, but they didn't realize that before he actually had a drink, he was in control of it. He could look at blood without wanting to rip into every neck he could find to get it. It had been taking a leap off that edge that had gotten him so messed up, and led to the murder of those two men.  
  
Three weeks, almost four, without a single drop of blood and he was anxious? Fine, it wasn't that big a price to pay. If he could ride it out, who knew how much better he could get.  
  
Except Olivier didn't believe that, even Harper didn't believe that to a point. They all said he should keep drinking, he should just master it. But he didn't know if he could do it.  
  
If he did snap though, and kill a prisoner the same way, then the question of his guilt wouldn't be a question anymore, and he would rot in a jail cell of solitary confinement, much like this one, for the rest of his natural born life. However long that would be.  
  
Tony looked at his brother's pockets as he said he had a bag of it with him, before deciding it must be in one of the inner pockets. Exhaling, he looked back up at Olivier, to his find his gaze hard and unrelenting. He seemed intent on not walking out until Tony had drank it.  
  
There was no need to point out why he'd kept it inside his jacket's flap; nor why he spelled it best he could to hide the scent. The fact Tony hadn't only proved how far out of his system it was. His eyes lock on his brother's, not an inch of hesitance behind them.  
  
"It's from the hospital, you're not hurting anyone, I won't yell out, and whatever frenzy you're in afterwards, I can stop you." Each point was like a bullet under his breath. "I promise you. Though, yeah, tell me now if you've been suppressing a want to kill me this whole time. Just a fair heads-up."   
  
"No more so than usual," Tony replied first with a small smirk, hoping to ease the tension and failing, before exhaling again, weighing his options. There weren't that many to begin with, if he even had more than one.  
  
"If I drink now, I might want more of it. It's still dangerous."  
  
"You already do want more of it," Olivier said, and shook his head at his stubborn brother. Part of him could admire the resolve, don't get him wrong -- and part of him knew that if Tony had never snapped in his life, he might believe he never would again. But he had. He wouldn't be in prison otherwise.   
  
Olivier wasn't going to tell him it was his fault. That he blamed himself for Tony's loss of control; that he knew it was Emily that had thrown him over the cliff and he barely clung to it now. Anxiety was one thing. The fact that Tony had glanced instantly at the (wrong) pocket, on the other hand?  
  
"It is your choice, Tony." Though his voice hadn't relented, his gaze had, his eyebrows had. "I'm not going to shove it down your throat. But tell me truthfully: if I so much as brought the bag out and didn't have it's scent masked, wouldn't you want it? Because you can't...you can't live like this, there's other ways. Stefanie's blood is out of your system. Just as Daniella's is out of mine, and I still feel like I want to rip someone's head off, and *I'm* not presently spending all my days surrounded by..."  
  
He breathes out, having not intended to get that hot or bothered by it, he just--he wished he could understand Tony's hesitation when his boredom and anxiety was only the beginning of symptoms sure to arise. Olivier knew from experience. The bloodlust was only part of what they inherited: the larger part, was the calling to violence, the fact he had enjoyed what he did to Sarah and the 'kind of innocent' -- just as much as he knew Tony had, in part, enjoyed what he did to those men. (And to Emily.)  
  
"This doesn't have to be hard." Olivier was close to pleading with his brother as he surveys him. "But I'll follow your lead. I mean, is it drinking that's made it harder for you to--," cling to his morality? ,"lecture me? Is that it?"   
  
Well he wasn't going to deny that part, but he also currently wasn't beating up assholes to get to it, so he considered that to be that he was doing pretty well. He kept silent at Olivier's question, knowing very well that the moment he looked at it, he'd probably reach for it, rip it out of his brother's hands and pray that he didn't take a limb with it. He would want it, the same way he would want it if someone cut themselves shaving or anything like it. But he could control himself better, couldn't he? It's been weeks since he'd had blood, it was out of his system, he just needed to adjust.  
  
Honestly, what was more surprising was hearing that Olivier was almost in the same boat. His eyebrows rose, clearly confused and curious as to why his brother had stopped his healthy diet of Daniella-a-la-mode? Remembering back on the night he'd been arrested, Dani hadn't exactly been too perky, and she had stayed back and slept rather than to come to the station with Stef and Oli, but a full three weeks?  
  
"I've got captivity for my reason, what's your excuse?"  
  
Dumbass.  
  
"Yes," he answered honestly to Olivier's next question, his jaw coming up as he met his brother's eyes again, "that's exactly why."  
  
"My excuse?" Olivier shook his head for a second, because frankly: if he told his brother the truth - that he'd almost killed Daniella (even if she saw it differently) - it wouldn't be constructive to getting him to drink now. And the fact Tony didn't say a word about his offer to just take it out and see if he could resist it made Olivier's resolve strengthen, because clearly, his brother would snap eventually. The longer he resisted, the worse it would be.  
  
"She and I are having a difference of opinion," he said instead truthfully, reaching up to toy with the leather zipper, thumb tugging it half-way down before he stopped. He still wasn't going to pull the bag out, "she has moral objections to blood bags." And I have moral objections to killing her. "Except I think she just has possessive issues, personally."   
  
He waves this off, because he was sighing now. His brother had been honest with him for a mostly-pointed, rhetorical question and he understands it. In Tony's mind, deciding not to drink was a moral decision (not a, say, stubborn and impudent denial of his biology). If he could cave here, he had to be wondering why he shouldn't just cave everywhere. It was the classic slippery-slope Catholic argument, like why before Pope Francis the Vatican spent two thousand years arguing against two men or two women marrying. Obviously, gay marriage led to people wanting to marry cows.  
  
Biting down on his tongue as his expression softens, he nods just once to show he did get it before saying, calmly still, "Look at it this way, fratello. Adjusting to being tolerant? It'll lose all power over you. Which also means you'll be able to decide *not* to drink, no matter how long it's been, no matter what you see or smell. You can go back to divorcing feeding from murder, and when you can do that, you'll have just plenty to lecture me about without being a hypocrite anymore."  
  
He starts lowering the zipper, but his eyes stay on Tony.   
  
"And that's polite bullshit speak for?" Tony continued to pry, a smirk back on his face. As he heard the reason though, Tony's eyebrows skyrocketed. A moral objection to blood bags? Was she saying that she preferred vampires, and vampire hybrids, snack on unsuspecting people walking down the alleyways? Then Olivier continued, calling Daniella possessive and Tony snorted. Yes, well, that also made sense. Odd, so she wouldn't let Olivier feed from anyone else? Why? It must have been a much more intimate thing between them and on that note, he stopped thinking about it.  
  
Ever the one not to lose an arguement, Olivier brought up another excellent point. Gaining mastery of his feeding could mean choosing not to feed again. But before that, obviously, he would have to continue to do so now. He would have to check the facts when he got home, unsure if that was entirely how it worked, but for right now it made more sense than Tony deciding to go without blood for an additional unspecified amount of time.  
  
"Okay," he said, instead of the snappy 'fine' he was planning on saying instead.  
  
Nodding point blank the moment his brother agrees, he leans over to put out the unfinished cigarette (it just didn't cut it for him) squashing the paper to nothing against the wall. Then he takes car to brush the ashes off his brother's blanket, and the moment he feels the fabric he wants to cast a spell to make it softer. Sure, there were sheets underneath, but goddammit that was just--scratchy. Though yeah, it reminds him of visiting Tony at university; he was all for anything that reminded him of his dorm room.  
  
Though he knew this wouldn't. Sliding his hand to the inner pocket and stilling as his fingers squish around the bag, his mouth drying--seeming to remember the taste from the simple feel. After he nods, he echoes, "Bene," in his brother's exact tone and then in one, embellished sweep reveals the bag. As he holds it over his knee towards Tony, he still hasn't actually looked at it (or away from his brother's gaze--already stilling), and he continues in the same soothing Italian, "Easy. It's freely offered. *Enjoy* it."  
  
Like he had figured, his first instinct was to reach for the bag in his brother's hand. He had tensed and coiled up like a panther about to strike, but instead made his hands grip the edge of the thin mattress hard. Knuckles white, he looked at the bag and was unable to tear his eyes away from it, as if they were tethered to the  damn thing. The bag was a translucent plastic, the red was reduced in opacity so that it wasn't vibrant to his eyes, and it was clearly labeled A positive. Later he would realize it was probably the smartest choice, as it was the most common blood type in France and therefore the more abundant.  
  
Right now though, he could hardly think further than wanting to rip a corner off the bad and guzzle down the pint, or so, of blood available to him. Olivier's words were swimming through grape jell-o before reaching Tony's ears. He offered a quick nod once his words did make sense to Tony, and then he tried. Exhaling, he unclenched his hands from the mattress and then determinedly brought a hand forward to grab the bag. After exchanging a look with Olivier he gave it a small yet sharp tug, and nearly brought it to his chest when he had it in his arms.   
  
Enjoy it, Olivier offered Tony, but he was finding the words even more difficult to understand. He didn't drink because he enjoyed it, consciously. But the blood wasn't beating, it had probably been frozen already, surely it couldn't still hold the same sway over him? Tony didn't know, but after a couple of more seconds of looking at the bag, he ripped a corner of it open with his blunt teeth and then attached his mouth over the opening and began to squeeze and suck the blood into his mouth, his eyes closing instinctively.  
  
Next to him, Olivier's mouth is drawn into a thin line, eyes squinting against the light. He's been over it for a long time; the rush of that first sticky drop -- that abrupt, building gush of hunger that drives you to cling to a plastic bag like you'll die the moment you let go from a sheer waste of life. It lost it's grip on him the summer he drowned in it, searching for happiness in scarlet glasses that he'd pretend were wine. It had been a challenge at first, to see how long he could go before he'd be on his knees (metaphorically: Olivier D'Grey doesn't beg). Then one day he realized it had been months without sparing the need a thought. The want was there - don't mistake him. You cannot cure genetics any easier than a love affair, and this peculiar addiction was both. It was written on his bones, settled deep under his skin, but for years had held no permanent sway over him.   
  
He watches his brother inhale it all without a word and for a second he smiled a rare, full-blown and beautiful smile. They're getting better at trusting each other again, he realizes. It had always been his second nature to protect his little brother, but equally true was the fact that protecting him from hell seemed to have little to do with saving his life.   
  
It wasn't enough, Tony realized as he started sucking in air after the final drop landed on his tongue. Enraged, he squeezed the bag further, as if that would suddenly create more of what was ambrosia to him, or maybe it would be more accurately described as ichor. With it, it carried the taste of sweet poison. A blend that tasted so richly of life and death, for where there was one there was the other, that despite the knowledge that it would be his undoing, he gulped it down willfully and eagerly. But it wasn't enough.  
  
When he notices the way Tony's shoulders are starting to shake as he sucks at the dry bag for more, more, more, Olivier leans over to take it from him and has to rip the plastic open to get him to let it go. The other hand he slams down on Tony's shoulder as he quickly replaces it with a water bottle and orders, "Breathe."   
  
As the bag is suddenly ripped away from him, he growls, intending to follow it when a hand holds him still. Shoving it away as his eyes remained blazing red with anger, he breathes in and out harshly as he sucked through his stained teeth. Finding a bottle of water in his hand, he instead diverts his thirst towards it, despite knowing it wasn't what he craved or needed.  
  
Breathe or drink, brother? Make up your mind because I can't do both, Tony thought as he tore the cap away without unscrewing it, the plastic thing crushing in his hand, and the bottle was close to follow suit. He drank it all in three gulps. With a long exhale, Tony opens his eyes again, the red haze beginning to clear. The bottle and cap both were crushed in his hand, his grip still tight around them as he fought to relax again.  
  
Olivier lets him shove him off (as if he had a choice, considering the infusion of strength his brother shakes with), but he doesn't move. One foot flat and hard, braced on the floor, the other was under him on the metal, hooked on the frame of a bed too small and too week. His hand grips the wall over where he put the cigarette out, and he waits until Tony's eyes open before speaking again. They were hazy when they did.  
  
"You still want more." It wasn't a question. "But you don't need it." He intoned, heavily, feeling oddly like he was the man on the altar Tony went to every Sunday.   
  
It was hard to keep from telling his brother to shut up and go fuck himself in Italian, but somehow he managed to suppress it without biting down on his tongue. The violence and the savagery were still there, right under the surface, like an itch that couldn't be scratched until he did what would come only natural and rip someone apart. The worst part was knowing that the pit in his stomach he got when normally thinking about it vanished; the worst part was feeling that pit be replaced with a balloon of hot air that would expand and float. It would lift him higher than anything else, but everything that went up must come back down; it was a law of science (he thought).  
  
His breathing easier, he manages to turn his head to look at Olivier again, feeling unbelievably grateful to the man for giving him the bag but also inconceivably angry too. As the anger began to subside, Tony managed to regain his ability to speak.  
  
He scoffed, rubbing his face, "Try telling that to my brain."  
  
"What part of your body do you imagine I'm talking to right now?" Olivier asked, unable to not take the opportunity to whack the side of his brother's head. That had dual functions! It would snap him back to the present. Or, maybe it would kickstart the violent urges, but Olivier would take his chances. The ire in Tony's curling mouth and narrowed gaze was equaled by gratitude in blue eyes. Whatever the fists on his lap, he hadn't launched at him.  
  
"Ei!" He lifted his hand to the side of his head, letting the water bottle fall to the floor. Tony's eyes narrowed as he looked at his brother again, and the brief surprise of being whacked, oww, was enough to keep him from coming up with a smart retort in time. Shaking his head, he brought his hand back down and rubbed at his face again. Breathing in and out, it was like the time he had taken his friend Paula to lamaze class when her boyfriend couldn't get out of work.  
  
Olivier breathed in, then out, hoping Tony would do the same.  
  
He said, "Until there's nothing special about this to you, it'll continue to be difficult, Tony. You can't live just...day to day, falling over the edge and then duct-taping yourself to it."  
  
"No shit, Sherlock," Tony ended up saying so that he wouldn't stay silent for too long. Of course it was going to keep being difficult, but Tony couldn't even picture in his mind when this wouldn't be 'special' (he had other words he'd choose to call it).  
  
"The truth is, the savagery you're feeling? That's always there. Blood doesn't magically call it forth to us, anymore than alcohol makes people you didn't want to fuck before suddenly attractive."  
  
"I don't think that simile works..." Tony frowned, weighing it in his mind before just shrugging and accepting it with a non-verbal 'fuck it', "but whatever, I'll bite." Once he realized what he'd said, a smirk crossed his face and he laughed once wiping his mouth with the palm of his hand and letting it fall down to strike his thigh.  
  
Bite. Olivier just shook his head in brief amusement, more enjoying his brother's sudden laugh than anything else. It was bitter, it was harsh, and it shook it's way out of a throat choked - but it was a laugh. Tony wasn't ever more himself than when he was laughing at things you shouldn't find funny. And Olivier missed that. He missed his brother.  
  
"So what exactly do you propose I do to suppress the stabby-rip-stab-stab urges, hmm?"  
  
About to open his mouth, Olivier was forced to pause as he realized in this prison there weren't many options - and Tony wouldn't do what he did irregardless. Tongue digging behind his teeth as he thinks, his hand falls off the wall.   
  
"Why don't you tell me what it is you want to do. What exactly these urges are. You're a writer, though ''stabby-rip-stab-stab' as an adjective makes that ever more a wonder; *you* paint the word picture, Tonio." He speaks in Italian without pausing for another breath.  
  
"You're asking me to go poetic?" Tony scoffed, and pursed his lips as he wondered if he could even accurately describe the feeling that had been thumping so loud in his ears only three minutes before. The sensation was always vivid in the moment, but then soon after it would fade and he would almost forget all about it until the next time. It wasn't like it was with feeding and the taste of blood; he could make epic poems out of those easily.  
  
"Though I never claimed to be a *good* writer," he warned, clearing his throat and answering his brother in the same Italian he had used, "I'll try." Of course though, immediately after he had said that, he imagined that the Jedi master Yoda stood across from him, his cane held with two hands before declaring 'do or do not, there is no try'. So it shall be done, master.  
  
"I feel like I want to tear the world apart with my bare hands. I want to cause pain, sorrow, and fear, especially fear. I want to...to desecrate and demean and ruin." Tony hissed and wrung his hands together again, feeling as if he were calling up the urge all over again with his description. His eyes began to narrow.  
  
"I want to bite heads off and shower in the blood. I want the world to burn around me, and then blow the ashes away into the wind. I want to destroy everything in my path until I'm the only one left standing." His mouth opened slightly to lick his bottom lip, though it was entirely dry. The anger burned red within him and left his mouth dry like a desert, and his breath hot.  
  
He cleared his throats, "That's how it feels."  
  
Motionless, Olivier's unfazed by the images his brother engraves in vivid ink on the back of his eyelids. There's no need to do that; his memory works like bloody everything else. Tony had done exactly that at Notre Dame. He saw the result in black and red on metal slabs at the morgue, knew the exact way his brother killed each and every one of his sixteen victims. (Ten of them had been his once. His, yes, but wouldn't Tony be proud he hadn't said 'his friend'? Progress!)   
  
Even if he hadn't seen Tony in all his immoral-savage-glory, Olivier has memories of his own. He can't stop them, faceless (but never nameless), blood on his hands spilling down his chin and dripping, languishing on his tongue. So he doesn't move until Tony's clearing his throat, and then he nods. Tony didn't need to tell him what it was like. He did need to get it out of his chest in *some*way before it scratched and crawled out to leave nothing behind but scarlet ribbons on his flesh.   
  
Or rather: other's flesh.  
  
Forcing Tony to make eye-contact before he spoke, Olivier's voice was still that of objective observer, instead of the worried brother he was.  
  
"You're right, not Nobel poetry." Olivier's smile creeps up his cheek. "But better than Hollywood's gore. In any case, writing's a pretty safe way to get it out." It was cheeky, because he knew Tony had already done it without knowing why. Just because Olivier asked. (Wasn't that a common story of theirs?)   
  
"Maybe," he posits with a hand up as if to say 'stick with me', "maybe what you need to do is just think of a good way you can use the abilities. Besides punching me."  
  
"I wonder how many different ways I could say 'fuck you' right now," Tony wondered aloud as his brother decided to be a dick, but at least it was a dick with a sense of humor. He couldn't deny it even if he wanted to when a sharp chortle left his mouth (and nose in a weird exhale), Tony's hand coming up to rub the back of his neck, keeping his gaze on his brother who had worked so hard to have eye contact.  
  
"Depends, are you including in different languages or just creative metaphors?" Olivier's snark was automatic. Most days, he had no way of turning it off and frankly, his brother might deny it - but he appreciated it. In an odd way, it told Tony he knew he could handle it.  
  
"Both, both is good," Tony nodded definitively and then moved on. He really wasn't going to tell his brother fuck you after all, no matter how annoying his dead-pan snark got. And by 'no matter how', he meant today.  
  
"And there you go taking away my first idea," Tony snaps his fingers together in false disappointment before bringing his hand to theatrically trace his chin, and then after his pretend beard which reached the middle of his chest like the old man Jafar had dressed up as when he convinced Aladdin to go into the Cave of Wonders. Tony had been in a couple Cave of Wonders himself, but that was definitely a joke best said aloud.  
  
"There's not much I can do here anyways," he gestured around them, sighing again and leaning against the wall as he resigned to his boredom.  
  
Past the finger snap, Olivier just smiled.   
  
"No," he scowled in agreement, "there isn't. But I'll bring more. Not gonna lie, separated from Stef a bit might be a...good idea; I had to pull her out of a bar...well, Audrey gave her an aneurysm first. Either way." He shrugs, "However much you miss your *girls*, they're missing you more."  
  
His lips twitched briefly as Olivier mentioned that it was a good idea that he and Stef be separated for a while. Clearly, Tony wanted to disagree, given that he was slowly going out of his mind, but he was distracted from speaking up as Olivier kept talking. Eyebrows lifting high, his mouth dropped before he scoffed.  
  
"Wait, that little witch was there?" Stefanie hadn't told him that point when she had revealed that she'd been followed to a bar by Olivier. The detail about the aneurysm was definitely not there either.  
  
"You let her hurt Stef and she's still walking? Coming into my house- our house, like nothing?" His correction was quick and without hesitation before he continued, "Are you out of your mind?! We're gonna have a longer talk about the way to treat my enemies, Olivier." Tony wagged his finger in front of his brother's face and then crossed his arms in front of his chest. Peeved, he still nevertheless found himself smiling to hear he was being missed (more).  
  
"Well, they have a funny way of showing it," he added, ever petulant. "Send them lots of hugs and kisses on my behalf."  
  
The abrupt turnabout made him blink, but Olivier was thankful for the moment to breathe. And smile, because he was glad to hear his brother still leap to Stefanie's defense. Yes, that was contrary to the fact he believed them better off apart, but, Olivier D'Grey was a complicated person.   
  
"Yeah, I will." After nodding and dropping his hand back away from Tony, he got up to pocket the empty bag. Waiting until they made eye contact, he continued (still ever nonchalant), "And yeah, Audrey walked in to the bar. It'd have been rude to ignore her- especially since she followed me out and went after Stef- better I was there."  
  
Oh because what she had done wasn't *rude*, his glare and eyebrow furrow seemed to say, but instead he pursed his lips shut and didn't say another word. Haters make people famous after all, so he wasn't going to waste the air in his lungs talking about her. Nope-uh. Even if it was tempting to make fun of his brother at his apparent inability to interfere. Or rather, it was unwillingness. It was no secret that as a recently turned vampire, Olivier didn't approve of Stef...if he ever did in the first place, but that was too complicated a topic to delve into right now.  
  
Frankly, Olivier felt it was better she was there too, but bygones. Audrey had a good reason to hate his brother, and vice versa. Absent any reason to believe that she wouldn't be helping Devin anytime soon (and absent belief she'd give up on going after Tony with *her* dark magic); it was the oldest, rule one adage. Keep your friends close...  
  
"And Stef's fine." He added, finger up quick. "But hold up, I didn't *let* her hurt anyone. That 'little witch' has obscene amounts of power. Even when she was twelve she proved it, when she took my watch." He says, like that was the final judgment on the matter. She pick-pocketed Olivier D'Grey, she must be a dark and powerful witch (Tony had to hate that he'd been right about that).   
  
"Pick-pocketing is sleight of hand and perception, Oli, not dark magic," he rolled his eyes, even if he had felt the prowess of her magic personally. He hadn't shaken off the feel of it for at least a week and throughout that time he'd sometimes feel something like shadow fingers trying to creep up to his neck. Maybe that was just his imagination though.  
  
Tony nodded, because after all he had seen for himself that Stefanie had been alright, but if she hadn't shown up, Olivier would have had to worry about a recently furious and fed Tony disapparating out of the cell and going to confront Audrey about it. Which he would still probably do once he was out of here anyways.  
  
A tiny bit softer, Olivier adds, "Still trying to protect Stef, huh?"  
  
"Don't tell her that," Tony responds softer as well, "I've got to keep my efforts on the DL. Down-lo," he added, unsure if his brother recognized the term when even Tony didn't use it frequently.  
  
"Otherwise she might tear my throat out." Which there was a still chance she'd do that anyway. But, details.  
  
"No she won't." Olivier argues immediately, leaning off the wall again. There was no part of him willing to accept his brother's love life as actually being dangerous to his life; no part of him that accepted Tony at peril, be it from tooth, claw, or sparkly pink bedazzled nail.   
  
Not mentioning his gratitude for the explanation of 'DL' (he did assume his brother hadn't meant the code he used for Drop-off Location), Olivier just nodded along. Once he'd corrected that Stefanie would hurt him, anyway.   
  
"I won't. We don't talk about you anyway," he half teased (except it was true, because of any subject they might have, Tony was particularly triggering). "But if you want my honest opinion Tonio, Stef might not need or want your protection, but she does appreciate it. I, think." A flat palm hit his chest as he said 'I'.   
  
"She doesn't have anyone else in her life trying to smother her in affection, after all." He's teasing, but his voice is soft as he surveys carefully the way Tony still was itching at his neck, restless in the bed. It stung Olivier. Maybe he should have brought two bags; Madonna knew he had to be just *hungry.*   
  
Choosing not to say anything in response to Olivier's immediate rejection of Stefanie ever hurting him, Tony simply let it go as he tried not to chuckle. It figured that he would be holding back laughter on a topic that wasn't funny in the slightest, especially when Tony knew that if Stefanie ever did hurt Tony permanently and physically, Olivier was going after her immediately, sister of his currently-separated husband be damned.  
  
"The curse of having no one, you'll take affection even from the man who killed your brother. Them's the breaks," he smirked, the sentiment not reaching his eyes before shrugging. Even still, he was beginning to feel distinctly uncomfortable again. It was of his own making of course, nearly everything was.  
  
"You didn't-"   
  
"Let's not talk about my depressing love life, next."  
  
Olivier was cut off and he huffs, rolling his eyes up to the ceiling. Tony didn't kill Marcel, but was he surprised that Tony put it that way? Of course not. If anything it was more of a twist and surprise that it took this long for Tony to graduate 'was present trying to keep her alive while Marcel was killed and shoved her out of the way' to 'I killed him with malice of forethought.'  
  
Both hands landed on his waist as he added aloud instead, "Depressing? You have a girl who crashed into prison just to sleep with you. I'm not sure how that qualifies as depressing."  
  
"I don't -have- her," he clarified with a raised finger, letting the hand fall back down to the thin mattress, that he might have accidentally-on-purpose messed it up even further by gripping the fuck out of it earlier.  
  
"And no, that part isn't the depressing part obviously though sneaking in really wasn't all that necessary, there are visiting hours after all. Also, how the hell--" he leaned away from the bed, looking around as he attempted to figure out for the umpteenth time how it was these vamp-girls were getting into his state.  
  
"Superpowers, man," he shook his head, now smiling again.  
  
Olivier laughed, happy (and a bit relieved) to see the calmer smile on his brother's face. See, he was right. Talking about Stefanie had inevitably distracted him from the "stabby-rip-rip-stab urges" (or whatever it was). Not that Olivier would ever admit that was why he brought her up. It would never work again.  
  
"Yeah, well visitor hours don't let her jump you." The smirk on his lips was light. "Though that's not to say she hasn't, say, accidentally left open on my laptop web searches on how to fake a certificate for conjugal visits."   
  
See, that was how he knew why Stefanie had come later. They really *didn't* talk about Tony. And his brother's sex life was the only way they usually spoke about girls -- or his own. Locker-room talk.  
  
"She actually Googled that?," Tony scoffed before laughing outright. Oh, Stef. Because Google would have all the answers of course. Believing his brother could make that up, he couldn't deny that even still it sounded like something Stef would do. He shook his head, the smile still on his lips as he filed that detail away for future teasing use.  
  
"Yup. Well, unless Devin left it up instead? Something you didn't tell me?" He points out easily with a winning smile (or so he tried), before finishing the thought.   
  
Tony sighed, "It'd be wishful thinking only, I'm afraid. He has yet to see our true love." Tony managed to even play it off as sincere as he spoke. Unfortunately, there was no escaping the deep sarcasm of his soul. Everything and anything he said was always assumed to be a joke/teasing. It made pretending to be sincere very difficult.  
  
"So should I tell her you'll go for it? Tie the knot in a jail cell so you can get a killer apartment?"  
  
He was mostly teasing, but that last-'killer'-that seemed to feel a little too real.  
  
Killer! Ha! His brother thought he was so hilarious, and to Tony he mostly was, some days, under the right moon. He laughed once and then shook his head.  
  
"Don't you remember? I'm already engaged to Dani," he mentioned about the amethyst ring he'd gotten her for Christmas. As he had explained that day, he had liked it, so he put a ring on it.  
  
"Don't ask me," Olivier admits, hand still on his chest. It was rare Olivier would say he didn't know something. "You can't disapparate or apparate into this cell, I know that. Claude."   
  
Actually Dad had told him, once, when tutoring him on the different ways muggle cops combatted supernatural creatures--but Claude repeated it. A hunter had made this particular cell; vampires shouldn't be able to get in and out. Unless Briana had some deal with the hunter, and she told Stef. That was possible.   
  
"Really?" Tony asked, tilting his head. He hadn't known it had anti-apparating wards on it. He hadn't actually tried yet! Olivier should be proud! (Actually, he wouldn't be, but he couldn't think of anybody else that would be proud that he hadn't tried to escape yet. Maybe Detective Dale, and proud was pushing it.)  
  
Olivier wasn't surprised Tony hadn't tried to apparate out. Guilty people run, but repentant don't. He wants to pretend he was, though, so he nodded along.  
  
"Yeah. so, superpowers, yeah. Should I be insulted you didn't ask how I get in? Rather, get the guard to let me in?"   
  
"I assumed you had seduced him, obviously."  
  
"Oh, obviously. Wasn't that bad really. You know I'm down to the freaky stuff."   
  
And with that, Olivier sat right back down on the bed beside his brother, knowing the implication and smirking at it. After nudging his shoulder, he pointed out with a smaller smile, unable to help it, "And anything for you."   
  
"Oh shut up," Tony bumped his shoulder back and then smiled as well before bringing his arm up to throw it around his brother and clasp the opposite shoulder.  
  
"I love you, fratello. Bad humor and all."  
  
"And all? Pretty big category to lump together." Olivier chuckles first, as if laughing off his brother's sincerity was compulsory for him. All evidence of history correlated that assumption, actually. After taking a moment to contemplate that as his head leans away (and his body is squeezed in the sideways hug), he finds himself nodding in agreement.   
  
"Actually I suppose you're just being diplomatic, fratello." Madonna knew he was. It went both way. Mass-murderous, blood-drinking, kidnap-allowing, torturing-prowess, violent-alter ego, patricide and pop-song loving all included between them. That, and you know, their extreme physical attractiveness to women too good for them.  
  
So he lifts his arm and squeezes back, nodding.  
  
"I love you, too." It was sincere, eyes soft for a second because they hadn't said these words frequently (he probably could count it on one hand how often they had), and yet, he didn't think they never said it either. Excuse him, but wasn't consistently saving the other's life at great physical and emotional personal peril on par with three words in English?  
  
Then his smile turned up slow, "That your subtle way of telling me to get out so you can write your next Cariah scene?"  
  
Except he heard the footsteps and realized after speaking: no, it was evidence his brother had fed recently.  
  
"You're not the only one capable of diplomacy, brother," he smirked briefly, allowing the tease to remain instead of shooting it down. Whatever it took to make it comfortable, he supposed, though Tony suspected Olivier was just teasing for teasing's sake.  
  
It was the sincere response that meant more than the previous teases anyways. Tony grinned as he nodded, accepting it easily and was saddened to hear the footsteps coming down the hall (but smug that he heard them a second or two before his brother; sue him, the diet had benefits he did enjoy).  
  
"Unless you want me to recite to you the manner in which Cara gains Josiah's undivided attention in a room full of guests at his lavish dinner party. Don't worry, Josiah reciprocates."


	24. What's This?! ( A Newspaper ... )

"I’m not publishing this! Are you out of your mind?!"  
  
"No, I’m actually one of the sanest people still left in this city," Amalie countered back in quick French. Her and her editor had been going about this back and forth for thirty minutes already. The glass walls of his office provided live entertainment to the entire staff, who weren’t exactly being subtle over the fact that they were snooping in. Amalie had expected to be met with reluctance, but this was at an entirely different level than usual. A middle aged man with a receding hairline and a growing gut, her boss had never been a journalist himself. He hadn’t worked his way up the ranks, didn’t know the first thing about writing a successful article, but once upon a time he’d had a pretty wealthy mother who wanted nothing but to provide her only boy with everything the world had to offer. In Amalie’s opinion, he’d had just that, and then some. His mother gave him the position of Editor-in-Chief before she retired and he would eventually inherit her small fortune when she died. But even a man like him wasn’t dumb enough not to realize that publishing certain pieces would make his life difficult. He might only care about the money, and about sexually harassing any woman that walked in front of him, but there was something else Amalie wagered she could cut at, and that was his pride.  
  
"You want me to publish an article about Antonio D’Grey-"  
  
"I want you to publish an article that has the most accurate accusations and evidence against him, Jerome, no one else has this. Yet."  
  
"Yet?!" Jerome raised his eyebrows and backed away his chair away from the desk, debating whether or not he should stand up. He threw the printed copy of the article in front of him and then waited for Amalie to finish explaining.  
  
"If you don’t publish this here, I can just publish it myself online. Better yet, I can go to another newspaper with this. I can guarantee you, everybody’s going to be leaping over each other at the first word of news about this trial. The police have kept this as silent as the grave, everything anybody has is speculation," Amalie stepped forward and used her index nail to tap on the sheet of paper, "I’ve got proof."  
  
"Your word," Jerome countered, but thankfully Amalie had known better than to reveal all her cards at the same time. Taking the two pictures out of her pocket, she placed them in front of him face down and then gestured for her boss to look for himself. His small eyes widened, and all the color left his face. If it weren’t before lunchtime, Amalie would have worried that he was about to throw up right then. You would think that a man of his size would have a stronger stomach. Then again, he was a muggle. Before today, he didn’t even know vampires existed and now he had to consider the possibility at the very least. Not that Tony was a vampire, and he didn’t have fangs in this picture, and while his face was half-obscured, you could see something of a demon in his features. Not to mention of course, it was very clear he was sucking the man dry. Jerome flipped the pictures over again, not being able to keep looking at them, and turned his gaze back to Amalie.  
  
"Every paper, magazine, and blog in France has been writing about this arrest for weeks, this is an exclusive," Amalie explained, a little slowly while she waited for Jerome to gather back the wits he did possess. Grabbing the edge of his desk, she leaned forward, dropping the volume of her voice just a little, "Imagine the prestige." Even if it were only momentary, Amalie knew, but like she had said, Jerome barely knew how this business worked.  
  
She leaned away again, “Now imagine someone else receiving this when I take it to them instead of you.”  
  
Jerome bristled, his nostrils flaring as he immediately threatened, “I could fire you in an instant and publish the article anyways.”  
  
"Not before I spread it online," Amalie shook her head; Jerome fired and hired her back at least five times a week, and the threats to fire her came at least five times daily.  
  
"And you know perfectly well no one here is half as good as I am."  
  
"Damn you, Amalie, I-" he fumed, breathing much like a rhino would before he was about to charge. In order for him to charge though, he would actually have to manage getting out of that chair. Amalie simply raised her eyebrows as he deliberated, waiting for him to come to a decision. Once he did, Amalie smirked as he picked up the phone to call up his assistant editors.  
  
—  
  
Walking down the streets on her way back home, Amalie looked at the printed newspaper, reading her article that had made the front page. It was done, there was no taking it back now. Folding the paper and stuffing it in her purse after nearly bumping into someone for the third time, and deciding maybe it was best to save it for later, Amalie made the corner turn right before her apartment and stood still as she saw someone coming down the opposite way.  
  
Quickly, before he saw her, Amalie took a couple of steps back and turned around, trying to hurry and cross the street to hide in a candle shop.  
  
"Amalie!"  
  
Amalie paused again and exhaled. Too late. Curse her impractical but stylish heels. With her lips pursed, she turned around and saw the giant of her ex-boyfriend walking up to her. He held the newspaper under his armpit as he walked towards her, his expression torn between angry and impressed. As Leo opened his mouth to speak, it was clear he was going to go with angry.  
  
"What’s this?" he asked, taking the paper and shoving it in front of her face.  
  
"Well, that’s a newspaper," Amalie answered with wide eyes that looked up at him through her eyelashes, "see, these words printed on paper convey news and current events-"  
  
"Cut the cutesy act, Amalie, it never looked good on you," Leo stopped her, though the corners of his mouth twitched up briefly, eager to prove his words wrong.  
  
"This is unfair," Leo said again, speaking through clenched teeth. Amalie shifted her weight from foot to foot, determined not to feel guilty or uncomfortable even if she could understand his concern. Tony was Leo’s best friend growing up, and while Leo claimed that Tony had a long way to go to earn his trust and respect again after leaving without a word and dropping off the face of the Earth, there was no denying that Leo was concerned and worried for Tony in jail. Not to mention, there was a distinct possibility that Leo would be the prosecuting judge, unless he had already turned it down and cited a conflict of interests.  
  
"This is the truth," Amalie replied and then shrugged, "I never claimed it was fair."  
  
"This is your friend," Leo tried another approach, but it served him as well as the first.  
  
"Tony killed those men, Leo. He might not deserve to be in prison, but he is, and it is my job to report the truth-"  
  
"I can’t believe your piece of shit boss agreed to publish this in the first place," Leo scoffed, tucking the paper under his armpit again and shaking his head. Amalie bit her lip and then decided to keep walking. Maybe if she got to the door of her building, she could usher him away quicker. Moving her hair away from her face, it took three of her steps to match one of his, a detail that had always annoyed her when they dated because unless she held his hand while they walked, she ended up playing catch-up. What had she been thinking before when she tried to out-walk him? The man could jump and be in Germany.  
  
"I am not without my methods of persuasion," Amalie answered honestly, a reminder that the most difficult part was already over. Yesterday she had spent half an hour arguing with him, and another hour discussing the article with him and his assistant editors, working quickly to make sure the paper made the morning edition. Today she had gone to her other job at the news station, where she guest-anchored mostly human-interest pieces to see if she could take the lead live on the air. Unfortunately, she hadn’t been as successful with Margaret as she had been with Jerome.  
  
Leo walked at a comfortable pace at her side as he scoffed, adding, “I bet.”  
  
Amalie turned around and put a hand on Leo’s chest to stop him and then used that same hand to poke him hard, “You above almost everybody else know how much journalism means to me. How much what I do, what my job, means to me. I’m not going to break my rules just because the person who I happen to be writing about is someone I have some level of affection towards.”  
  
"Oh, so now it’s affection?"  
  
Amalie cocked her head to the side, giving him a look to shut him up. “He’s a nice guy.”  
  
"Sometimes."  
  
"A good guy."  
  
"Compared to everyone around him, yes."  
  
"He’s got his heart in the right place," Amalie finished, exhaling in aggravation at all his interruptions.  
  
"Meaning encased in his left rib-cage, under his lung?"  
  
Amalie gave him the same look again and then shook her head, turning around and walking again. And she was the one who couldn’t work the cutesy routine? Then again, when Leo did it, it was more annoying and unfunny than cute. Eager to reach her door, she reached for the keys in her purse and then started to walk up the small steps to the door.  
  
"I’m doing my job," Amalie stated with an air of finality that Leo chose to ignore. He took her arm around her elbow and then tugged her to look at him, her eyebrows arching immediately until he brought his arm up and took a step away. Sighing, he tilted his head down to look at her and not for the first time with him, or in general, Amalie wished she were taller so that the motion of people having to look at her was dissimilar to the way one would look at a child. Raising her chin, she crossed her arms in front of her chest and then gestured at him to say what he needed to say.  
  
"You could have done some major damage today," Leo spoke quietly, "if the jury walks in to that courtroom already thinking that Tony is guilty, then they’ll be almost no convincing them otherwise."  
  
"I didn’t write that he was guilty," Amalie explained, "I gave the facts."  
  
"Leading to where you wanted it to go!"  
  
"Yes, so I wanted to attack the fact that Olivier is covering it up and twisting it like he did with Notre Dame, because that’s the truth! The truth hurts, but it must always be told. Ignorance isn’t bliss, and you know that, Leo," her eyes narrowed at his, their gazes caught with each other and she repeated, "you know that. And if it would have been anybody else, me even, you would not hesitate to do your job."  
  
"Well, it -is- him, and he’s my friend and you’re throwing him under the bus."  
  
"He was under the bus long before I got there, Leo, by his own hand. It’s already done." She smacked her hands on her thighs and then reached for her keys again, stepping towards her door and unlocking it, "there’s no taking it back and I wouldn’t take it back."  
  
"You’re a lot of things Amalie, but I’ve never known you to be cold," Leo spoke to her back as he watched her open the door and linger at the threshold. She looked over her shoulder and then smiled.  
  
"Makes you question whether you ever really knew me at all, huh?" Amalie finished walking in and then closed the door on Leo’s face mid-explanation, cutting off his words with a heavy thunk of the door.  
  
Walking up the flight of stairs up to her apartment on the fifth floor, Amalie felt the exhaustion seeping in to her bones with every step up. Once she got inside her tiny apartment, she let the door behind her close a lot more gracefully than the one in front of the building, and immediately headed to her kitchen to open a bottle of wine after pressing the button on her home phone to listen to her messages. On busy days, Amalie turned off her cell phone because she didn’t want to be bothered, and directed all her calls to her land line instead. Tonight, she had 22 messages on her machine. Popping the cork out of the bottle as she listened to her older brother both proud and worried for her safety, Amalie sighed and couldn’t bother for the wine to breathe and poured it directly into a glass.  
  
One down, twenty one more to go.


	25. And what do you think D'Grey's gonna do now?

"Your priorities are certainly in order."  
  
Olivier just looked up as he quoted his brother's nemesis aloud and said, perfectly brightly, "Of course they are! Why would my priorities be fucked up? My father fighting my mother over my brother and me? My brother killing him? After years of neglect and abuse at the hands of the same father who, miraculously, could seem to only muster up any kind of love for me? Cause that doesn't screw with my head at all, obviously not. Maybe you mean my religion? Which at the same time as teaching 'love thy neighbor' and that you should not murder also kind of says my very existence is a blasphemous horror that any good Christian would eradicate -- that's not a conflict, or anything. Nor is the fact that a half a dozen teenagers are camping out in my house to defend themselves against people who until recently followed my best friend -- or people who share the same maker as my father and brother's not-girlfriend, yeah, I'm not in a precarious situation or anything-- oh, sorry, do I sound on edge? Maybe that's cause my girlfriend's Bestie just went and released damning evidence, but hey, I don't think I can fairly blame her-- I mean, I do drink her blood, because it's delicious, and look at me." He gestures to his chest. "I must taste pretty good, but she doesn't have the same taste, so, least I can do. So, yeah," his hands clap together with his bright smirk, "my priorities are in perfect order, obviously I'm the picture of mental health."  
  
"What's that, Audrey?" He cups his ear. "Oh, Oli, baby. Sarcasm is the lowest form of wit?--you're better than that? And I'm not just saying that cause you killed me by saying it aloud, of course not?"  
  
"The lowest form of wit, si, e vero, but hey, give me credit for looking on the bright side of things, no? Hey, lowest form sure, but doesn't that just go with everything else about me too? At least I'm consistent in one way--guaranteed to take the low road if that's present, the high road, that's reserved for people like my brother, who's stubbornly in a jail cell right now, telling me to get him out with the same breath he swears to pound me if I break the law, harm the witness or cops responsible. See? High road."   
  
At that point he slaps his thigh again, swiveling around and emptying the decanter into his mouth. D'Grey doesn't bother with a glass.   
  
 Amalie had expected Olivier to be a little irked, to not show it in the slightest, and then to make the best out of the situation, which, if you really considered as thoroughly as Amalie had before she had gone through with publishing that picture, wasn't that bad to begin with. She didn't expect to encounter the man talking to himself and drinking without the benefit of a glass.  
  
Amalie had done all her drinking already, but it had mostly been celebratory drinks, honestly they were, not 'what have I done, sweet Jesus, what have I done?' drinks. Those drinks were reserved for tequila shots which ultimately always ends up making her previous question turn from what to who. The drink of choice today however was wine, celebratory wine.  
  
That said, it did make her coming here that much more imprudent. Amalie hadn't come to gloat, however, nor was she here to explain herself as there really was no need for explanations were there? She had never done anything or behaved in anyway that would lead anyone to believe this wasn't precisely what she would have done.  
  
Amalie stood watching and listening at the entryway of the room until she decided that she was in fact going to interrupt instead of respecting his privacy and coming back later. With her hands in front of her lap, holding her coat as she hadn't planned to be long, she tilts her head for a moment.  
  
"Consistent sounds awfully close to predictable."  
  
Aha! So, not Stefanie then. Not his girlfriend either, but see, if he just had a fair few spare drops of her blood in his system he could have figured that out before Amalie stepped foot in the room. Ah well, no harm, not like he said anything too incriminating here right? In fact! He had just intimated he'd followed Tony's blasted rules as best he could and hadn't (recently) broken the law. So no harm done. Cocking his head as he responds without looking around still replacing the crystal decanter and eyes scanning the lower shelves for more bourbon his words were as jaunty as before.   
  
"Predictable?" The crystal makes a sharp, bright sound as he sets it against the glass. D'grey finally meets her gaze, but he's smiling.   
  
"Oh, good evening Amalie, lovely to see you in my private room, yadda yadda--" He gestures at her with the crystal plug in hand, "care for a drink with me? Tonio'd be thrilled you know, here his OTP is, and well--frankly, I think you owe him one after today-- am I predictable?"   
  
He's already pouring them both a drink anyway. The amber liquid seems twice as dark in the dim, fireplace light but his smile hasn't moved.   
  
"Truly? Huh. Well, I'm lucky, certainly. Just the person I wanted to see today, you are! Hand-delivery does make things so much simpler, thank you for that. And what do you predict I'll do now, Amalie, what do you think D'Grey's going to do now, when you walk in here after that stunt you pulled today? Hm?" The smile just widens as he takes another sip, unmoved towards her.   
  
"Bonsoir," she replied easily enough, her voice soft and in deep contrast with his current sharp and quick words. If you were to judge by a perceived change in Olivier's demeanor, you would have never guessed that he had in fact been joined by a guest. Granted, it was an unwelcome, unannounced, and intruding guest but her point was still valid.  
  
"Don't trouble yourssss," her elongated 's' as she watched him begin to pour a glass despite the beginning of her rejection turned into an odd whistle that gradually quieted into a, "or do then."  
  
Amalie didn't think she owed him anything but that seemed more like a matter, and a conversation, to come between her and Tony, not his brother. It was never difficult to distinguish one brother from the other, apparently as Olivier had also been saying before, but it was an entirely different matter to separate them.  
  
Much as she tried to keep her cool there was something about the words 'hand-delivered' that both angered her and worried her. Naturally, she chose to focus on the former but didn't allow a single disgruntled expression to cross her countenance.  
  
She unpursed her lips to speak and found herself smiling. An odd gesture, but one she found natural especially with her next choice of words, and with his own distant smile unwavering.  
  
"Commend me on another article well-written, perhaps. Express a vague sense of being impressed. Thank me for obstructing and potentially getting evidence thrown out because of it. I would have expected all of those from a well, sober, you." She looks at his glass and at the decanter pointedly before looking back at him and taking a single step further in the room.  
  
"Also, do I have FedEx stamped across my face? No? I didn't think so. So I insist that you do not speak as if I were some sort of package left on your doorstep, inebriated or not. Now, I do apologize for interrupting and intruding into your home, however I'm not here to apologize for any more."  
  
"A sober me did think of all of those things!" Olivier insists as bright as the fireplace, with the glass he'd poured her sliding itself down the length of the bar towards her. (Probably best he not approach her closer yet; he wasn't as in control of himself as he should be, as he was *taught* to be.) The smile on her face did impress him, as did the only thing she was apologizing for, the fact she'd just walked in. Daniella must have let her in, he thinks, wondering where she'd gotten to at the back of his mind but somehow knowing she won't appear until they'd 'worked things out' here.   
  
(Was he drunk? Well halleluijah, about damn time.)  
  
And! He could commend her command of syntax and alliteration with all honesty. Yes, she had earned that degree from the university without any need to cheat, it was clear, brava. He takes another sip, or was about to, when he smirks with the glass hovering near his lips and uses it as the prop it was to gesture his pretend realization for her.   
  
"Ooh, you think thi--no, no, Amalie, I'm drinking in celebration! You're right, or well you're half right," his shoulder moves the glass up and down smoothly, "It's not just obstruction, you just proved the chain of evidence broken. Picture will be thrown out at trial by the morning. Grazie."   
  
He toasts her, downs half that glass too. No need to rush now if he was already drunk. Licking excess off burning lips, he rubs them with the back of his hand. The steps into the room she takes makes him nod, just twice.   
  
"You're right, that was wrong of me. You, Miss Avenier, tu sei molto sfarzoso-- way too hot to be an envelope. And you obviously would cost more than sixty-nine eurocents to send."  
  
He toasts her again with a little smirk to himself, but sets the glass down without a drink this time. Arms unfolded and spread across the bar behind him he watches her a moment before he seems to realize he'd just gone and proved himself predictable after all. That was funny. He almost laughed.   
  
"No, see, here's the thing about chain of evidence: you broke the chain only in the legal sense, the practical sense you're merely the last strand of it, meaning I can trace it back from you. I know, that you were not the one who delivered that photo to the policia, as you would have no need to do so anonymously when you did just stamp your name across it in digital print. So where did you get it? I know Daniella didn't give it to you--she might hate parts of what I do for a living but my brother's freedom has never been one of them--and besides, she hates anonymity as well. I wondered if you had a waitress friend, that seemed plausible, but why should the witness go and ensure the most damning piece of evidence can't be used? They that scared of me? I'm flattered, but I'm not fooled, no, no."  
  
Said witness had every reason to be scared, Tony's high road be damned, but D'Grey knew he hadn't given it to them yet. His arms fold as he looks at her.  
  
"But your brother." His head tilts, voice suddenly steady and quiet, gaze trained on her. "I remember your brother greeted an old friend of his at that fundraiser and, see, click!" He snaps his fingers near his head, lifts his smirk and then continues still deathly quiet.   
  
"How long have you known Mr. Dorat, Miss Avenier? Five, ten years? I bet he didn't have to do more than hand you the folder and trust journalist integrity to do the rest--it's clever, truly, it is. No fuss on his part, you have the truth as a shield, he wants to drive a wedge between Tony and I and will as like as not succeed--and oh, this is all just so wonderfully very, clever."  
  
Amalie extended a hand out to catch the glass before it slid off the edge of the bar, but she didn't take a drink. Watching Olivier D'Grey be drunk was equal parts amusing and disorienting, bordering on fascinating and frightening. She would prefer to continue to be sober throughout the duration of their conversation.  
  
"You're welcome," she accepted his Italian thank you easily. After all, her mother had taught her to always accept gratitude earnestly instead of modestly. Amalie hadn't figured out the difference until after she had died, however.  
  
"Again, not an object, not 'worth' any monetary value, but I'm half flattered by your attempted sentiment." See, usually when she's complimented she's not being contrasted to an envelope and insinuated that she's more expensive than it. And her broken Italian only caught a word, and not even the most important word, but she would assume a compliment.  
  
His train of thought was a curious thing. She couldn't deny being interested, it's not every day any person expresses their deductive reasoning aloud, giving her some insight into their thinking, and that was especially true of Olivier D'Grey. Amalie was too curious a person to ignore it.  
  
Her priorities shifted, however, when he mentioned her brother, as did her weight, shift to the other foot. It was an instant discomfort caused by concern. Frankly, the less Darrell interacted with D'Grey, the better in her mind. She knew her brother probably also thought the same of her. It was hard to decide which one was more protective of the other but Amalie would haphazard a guess that she was.  
  
So when he decided to focus on Ansel, stop speaking about Darrell, she was pleased. Though it made it only clearer that the conflict between them was, if not long-reaching, serious enough. As if getting Tony thrown in jail wasn't serious to begin with. The problem with that was Darrell was now involved because there was little else he valued above loyalty to friends.  
  
And it was a little more than just hand her a folder, for goodness' sake, did he think her so common? Did he think she wouldn't investigate and question and dig and ensure that what she was printing was nothing but the truth? Amalie didn't have much pride, but the amount that she did have suffered a tiny blow.  
  
"Actually, if you don't mind taking a couple of steps back in your deduction, I was here to tell you Daniella had nothing to do with it. That she found out about the article at the same time as everyone else, maybe a bit sooner, and therefore didn't hide that from you, but it seems you arrived at the correct conclusion without my help." Smart man, couldn't deny that much.  
  
She was tempted to say that was the reason she had come but as long as he was feeling chatty, she'd stick around until that ceased being true.  
  
"I don't disclose my sources." She wouldn't confirm or deny what he said, even if he thought he needed no confirmation. Amalie could never do that; confirmation was too big a part of her job for her to ignore. She couldn't just publish on instinct or the belief she was correct, she always had to know, not believe but know, she was correct.  
  
Ha! Brava, then, he was correct and being congratulated on it. That was almost worthy of another drink, but he thinks at the back of his mind somewhere in the deep recesses of his ingrained training, he was much too drunk for company already. Daddy dearest would be so very disappointed. (Was that what Tony wanted?) Or actually, would he? After all, Remington D'Grey might have never shed that cool exterior around him but, in a hundred and twenty years, surely he'd been drunk at least once. All he really has to do is make sure Amalie doesn't talk, but then, he hadn't given her any new information either, just told her what she knew. And said she wasn't an envelope. She seemed to insist there was no monetary value, but Olivier shakes his head. "Half, flattered?" Tongue pressed to the corner of his cheek, he pops it out. "There's a price for everything, cara, what do you think life insurance policies are? Trust me, my acknowledging you being expensive is a compliment of the highest order."  
  
It was, actually, and he suspects she knows that considering half of those so-enlightening editorials lamented how easily the press was bought. Money was only one, straightforward form of compensation anyway--and Olivier hates things that were too simple. Boredom was, when you didn't count the werewolves declaring war on his family, and on the vampires, who declared war on them too but were spying on him and for fun don't forget the hunters who hated them all -- ignoring that, boredom was his ultimate enemy.  
  
"You don't disclose yours sources." The echo was bright again, head tilting back as he considers the words, let's them languish on his tongue. Too bad they didn't have a camera. Tony would have loved that.  
  
"Did I ask you too?"   
  
He pushes off the counter, smirk rising as he gestures to her. "See, I only recall specifically asking how long you have known Ansel Dorat. Sure, I deduced a lot about your sources, so I can't give you explicit credit for jumping there, but, still curious."  
  
There's a beat in his ear. Unfortunate it wasn't her heart.  
  
"Right, stepping back," he literally steps back as he claps his hands together, smiling again. "You came here to tell me, my girlfriend didn't betray us. Admirable and brave of you. Of course, I also assume you won't insult me by saying if she had known she'd have told me, but I appreciate your keeping the secret all the same. Makes things easier. Though you know, I have it on good authority now that keeping someone in the dark doesn't actually do anything but piss them off and put them in danger--oh! Did you think she was in danger from me?"  
  
He straightens his head, honestly curious now, voice less cocky. Their loyalty was inspiring, actually.   
  
"Did you come here to protect her from my anger, cara?"   
  
"And I wondered why Dani is so taken with you," she expressed after restraining a roll of her eyes and a scoff. Being called expensive passed for a compliment now? Was it any wonder she'd only had one serious boyfriend until now? Men. Especially egotistical men. She would trade the lot of them for a jack rabbit vibrator any day.  
  
"Don't insult me, Olivier, we both know perfectly well what you were insinuating. Also, it's a hard to answer a question, or think it something other than rhetorical when you answer it yourself and don't give me opportunity to do so. After all, I don't interrupt someone mid-sentence, it's quite rude." Not that she particularly cared about manners. Being an investigative reporter didn't allow much room for manners or occasionally, you know, following the law.  
  
Her honest answer was yes, Amalie did think Daniella was in danger from Olivier. But then again, Amalie knew the opposite was also true. She also knew Dani was of the mindset that the more dangerous something was, the better. The stories Amalie could tell alone would leave most with an open mouth. Her best friend was crazy, but she was also crazy ass special, and Amalie would do anything for her.  
  
"To make sure your anger wasn't misdirected," to Dani, or anyone really, "and because I didn't want to put Dani in a position where she had to protect me over Tony. I'm a big girl, Olivier, so if you have a problem with what *I* wrote, and what *I* chose to disclose, you come to *me* about it, and no one else."  
  
Amalie might have eye-rolled, but Olivier just chuckled and nods the wonder off. It was the only way to admit and hide at the same time, the fact he'd wondered the same thing. No reason on Earth she should be 'so taken', oh and-- maybe he wondered how 'taken' she was too. Look at all the layers! He could never be simple. No wonder he hates boredom.   
  
"Insulting you? Amalie, I wasn't giving you the opportunity to answer the rhetorical questions because," because they were rhetorical, he wants he say, but he should probably be cleverer than that, "I wasn't going to insult you and assume you -would- disclose your source." One, source just by the by, because he knew it was the same source which the police got their information from. Lock his brother up and make it so if and when he gets him out, Tony will hate him for how and the public will hate Tony. See how clever it was?   
  
(Did Ansel think this would impress Stefanie or was he punishing her for her vamping herself? Maybe both, only, Olivier doesn't think Ansel's as complex in his motivations as himself.   
  
Returning to the conversation at hand he nods along with what she said, believing most of it. Impressive, he wants to say, or rather steal one of her articles quotes and point out the arrogance of holding information back to manipulate someone's choice.  
  
"You know." He says first, looking her up and down as he feels a laugh tugging in splutters at the corner of his lips, "If I were you, I wouldn't use the line 'I'm a big girl', it seriously comes off as overcompensating."   
  
If only he had Tony's talent for coming up with a nickname for her there. Not succeeding in holding his laugh back, he shakes his head and starts walking to the fireplace to add a log. A hand scratches at his neck as he walks.  
  
"Oh, Amalie, Amalieee," he mutters that under his breath, "do I sound angry? This isn't angry." He clenches down on his back teeth, then looks back at her over his shoulder. "You don't, want to make me angry. This is mild exhasperation at best." He chuckles over the clenched teeth. Log hits the fire in a cloud of sparks and ash.   
  
"Besides, I asked if you think she's in danger from me."  
  
It was a ping pong game with him here. First she ignores his rhetorical question, then he points out she ignored it, then she explains why, only for him to say it was so she wouldn't answer it in the first place. In a cartoon, a cat and mouse on the sidelines would have their eyes bouncing back and forth until eventually they went dizzy and started seeing birds flying around instead. Amalie chose to end the exchange before she started seeing flying birds of her own, or rather sending them at him.  
  
"A height joke," she said wryly, shaking her head to prevent a chuckle from leaving her lips, "sounds like you're the one who's compensating. Tony's not here so you have to pick up the mantle?" Maybe the one day she actually heard a joke about her height that she hadn't already heard before from either Darrell or Daniella's brothers, Amalie would give them credit.  
  
"Why, do you start turning green and shedding every article of clothing except miraculously your pants?" If he thought that he could frighten or intimidate her then...he would be right, but like hell she would actually act like it.  
  
"Oh, that wasn't supposed to be rhetorical?"  
  
"More like advice pertaining to your height. You were the one who made the joke by stating how big you were."  
  
Though she was absolutely right: he was overcompensating and picking up his brother's mantle. It made it difficult to achieve when she points it out but then, she was the one complicit here for the evidence that sent his brother away in the first place. How many times did he have to clean it all up anyway?   
  
Iron stoke in hand (silver until the tip of course, Italian blacksmith work), he prods it at the fire as he laughs at her snark back.  
  
"Aha, no, that was a true question. You can tell by the fact I didn't provide any answer. Shouldn't writers know this stuff? But then again, they published my brother when he thinks exaggeration of the 'pah' in 'nope' is clever wordplay, so maybe not."  
  
"Oh, my mistake, I wasn't aware you had suddenly lost the ability to interpret figurative language," she replied back quickly before her cheeks started flushing with either annoyance or embarrassment, she didn't know which one but she would pass it off as the former no matter what. Thick skin was a tough thing to grow, you see, it was a constant process to keep it in place. Contrary to what her brother thought, hanging out and being Daniella's friend didn't suddenly instill her with a backbone, she had to work on that herself, every day. Which meant that when you would like nothing more to do than to run home from pricks like Conrad Marron who stole your favorite fountain pen and used it to write profanities about you all over the school, you had to stand your ground instead.  
  
She wondered if Conrad ever regained full vision in his left eye.  
  
Setting her glass down without taking a single sip before she was tempted to splash it in his face or to chug it down, Amalie ignored his comment on his brother's novels, and decided to answer him without the snark or sarcasm tone from before.  
  
"Yes, I think she is. Technically, I've been writing that you're a danger to all of Paris, but as she's closer than most, then I think she's in more danger than most. I didn't want what I wrote to put her in more danger than she already is, even if I know no one better equipped to handle such as she."  
  
"You're forgiven." He says as brightly as she does, because after all, whatever expos��s she's been writing, Amalie barely knows him. It was the truth of ninety-eight percent of the country. Ninety-eight just because Nonna isn't in the country, and in his mind Tonio and Daniella only counting for 2% of the entire French population was generous of him. They were more like forty-nine and forty-eight percent each if he's the one writing the list, be real.   
  
So, sure, Amalie can be forgiven there, let no one say he doesn't have mercy and plus, she was cute when she flushed. (Why yes Tony, I can see your OTP gif response from here. Turn the neon sign up a little more so they can see it in space.)  
  
Drawing in the ash as she sips (finally, he thinks), the black spike tip pauses at the edge of the logs when she responds suddenly dead-serious. He approves. Tilting the stoke handle towards her, first he comments idly, "See. Speaking steadily accusatorial with facts, without blinking -- that's how you can intimidate, whatever your stature. Brava, cara."  
  
He goes back to the fireplace for a steady minute until he's sure it's roaring and he's no longer in danger of throwing the rod at her as if he held a javelin. Then he brushes ash and dust from his hands over the marble and scrunches fabric to stand back up.  
  
"A danger to all of Paris." He quotes first, tongue catching sweat off the top of his jaw. Only now does he meet her gaze. "Flattery will get you most places, but then, I suppose I'm not most." He shrugs a shoulder as he holds her gaze as best he can, head buzzing pleasantly, warm. His words were as serious as hers.   
  
"Still, I'll overlook the fact you're insinuating I'm an abusive boyfriend as, it was a very flattering statement. Besides. I think she's in danger too. I think she's sought it out her whole life, comfortable in feeling alive only when there's the feeling it might end, and, I think I'm lucky she calls herself mine, even if it is a status label for her."   
  
Sure, pointing at her with a fire poker wasn't the least bit threatening. It was true, Italians spoke so often with their hands and whatever they were holding in their hands at the time, like a fire poker.  
  
"And that's a better compliment than calling me expensive," she revealed. If he was going to be helpful and offer advice, then so could she. Even if it was an only marginally better compliment. She never thought being dubbed 'intimidating' was something to be boastful or proud over. Neither was being dangerous, but that's what D'Grey thought.  
  
Wait, so sucking her blood to the point she passed out wasn't abusive? (Yeah, Dani tried to tone it down in the explanation but there's no lying to Amalie, especially not from the person she knew best in this world). Oh she wouldn't even prod that with the fancy fire poker he had finally set down.  
  
"I'm not insinuating anything. I'm outwardly saying you're a dangerous man, but I didn't come here to antagonize you, Olivier. Didn't come here to gloat, or to listen to you make vaguely threatening gestures and comments. It really was, nothing personal, I did my job and I take my job very seriously." Ironic, when you considered that in her field she was one entirely true conspiracy theory away from being labeled the loony crack with a blog.   
  
Aha! Oh, brava. Head tilting back as he scoots the poker away, he nods with his bright, "Duly noted, grazie." It might only be bright because he speaks in the light of a fireplace, but that shouldn't discount his attempt at lightening the mood again. Or rather, his appreciation of her attempt to do so--where was his bottle again?   
  
Oh, there's a look, he thinks as he sees her disbelief and incredulity over him declaring he was overlooking her saying he's abusive. (He, hadn't commented on the matter one way or the other.)   
  
"Trust me, cara, if this had been anything besides business -- well." Shadows dance over his cheeks as the fire roars behind them. It's with whispered severity after contemplation he concludes in a hiss, "Then you might have actually made me angry."  
  
As, say, Ansel has. He leans back. Eyes still locked on hers, he shrugs a shoulder to cast that off. Nodding as he moves away from the fire, his words were brighter again, matching a crackle in the marble place behind her. Somewhere a clock was striking the hour.   
  
"I know, but see, you told me what you wanted to tell me already and so now," he's moved to the little stereo and slips on jazz music with a finger click, "why shouldn't we make it a little more personal? Because see," his hand comes up, "as I am so dangerous," he smirks at her, leaning back towards the bar, "otherwise I imagine I would be moments away from making threats and truthfully, Amalie, I don't want to threaten you. What I'd like," he lands his hand on the bar behind him, Armani spreading open, "is for us to get better acquainted, so we might avoid similar ah--misunderstandings. Off the record, for now at least."   
  
He smacks his lips, but his smile was kind for the first time since she'd walked in.  
  
Even picturing him as the laughable Hulk from the Incredible Hulk live action tv series she used to watch dubbed in French on Saturday mornings when she was a kid wasn't enough to stop an unpleasant shiver from running down her back. At least she could understand why he thought it a compliment that he was intimidating and dangerous.  
  
Right when she thought he was getting close to dismissing her for saying all she had come to say, Olivier proceeded to put on jazz music and invited her to stay longer and stop making it about business. Did he know from Dani that she liked jazz or did he just know one could never go wrong with it? Probably the latter, and he would be right.  
  
Funny, though, how he could make the sentence 'I don't want to threaten you' seem threatening. Actually she felt more uneasy as he calmed than when he was rambling drunkenly earlier before, until he smiled at the end and she weighed his words and found them genuine. At the very least, genuine enough.  
  
Placing her coat on a chair as she decides to stay longer, she picks up her once abandoned drink and agrees with a nod, "Alright. Off the record?" She sipped the drink again but this time made a face and slid the glass back down the bar, "I hate bourbon."  
  
Victory, he hears himself say mentally as he scissors his index and middle finger into a 'V' across the top of the bar when she took her coat off. Good, because, he couldn't let her go anywhere until he was absolutely certain she had not heard the mention of Tony killing Dad. Yes, Daniella knew obviously, but it was bad enough Tony had told her. And Claude, and Stefanie, his brother did not understand discretion if it snuck up behind him and bit him in the -- ahem, where was he? Right, at 'let's not tell a reporter with unfortunate obvious leanings to always telling the truth and nothing but the truth, how Dad had died. From what he understood about makers, Elwood wouldn't hesitate to kill Tonio the moment he heard that and he'd rather not be haunted by his brother telling him off for avenging him, basically.   
  
He laughs, abruptly, claps his hands together and takes the glass. "Fair enough!"  
  
Then he finishes the glass for her (it would have gone to waste!), and rounds behind the bar, smacking his lips again. Fingers drumming along the top of the bar to the beat off his stereo, he hums a harmonizing, "Red or white?" Both are in hand, bottles from their own vines from a decade ago. After a finger snap let's them slide on their own accord towards her, so she can judge for herself he speaks again.  
  
"Where'd you go to school?"  
  
Oh good, he had chosen to finish her drink after all. It wouldn't hurt for him to go back to being a little more drunk, and she would feel so much more at ease about it if he did. And there was no polite to put it either, no nice way to say, 'oh yes you need to keep drinking and I need to stay sober so I feel more comfortable about you, crime boss of France, boyfriend of my best friend, you just drink it all up, I'm good'.  
  
"I prefer red," she nodded as she sat at the bar, grabbing the bottles to inspect as he sends them, amused it was from his own winery.  
  
"Here in Paris, at CELSA, part of Sorbonne," she answered without taking her eyes off the bottles, before tapping her nails against the red wine and choosing that one, "yes, red, merci. And for secondary it was Louis-le-Grand, with Daniella." She gestured with her hand before placing it on the bar, figuring he would know that already.  
  
  
Olivier doesn't even notice that she says red twice; when her nail taps the glass he snaps his fingers, then points behind him at the wastebasket. The cork pops out and drops where he points. Ha! Ten points. He smirks to himself, nodding. He'd looked up her information on the blog already, but it was better to hear in person - especially as they then know where you got the information from. Plus, then you know if they lied.   
  
As he picks the bottle up to pour for her (ten points or not, he knows he's buzzed enough he can't handle pouring without looking), he smirks a bit.  
  
"Right." With Daniella--and, as he was deducing, with Ansel as well, but he smirks anyways. He leans over the bar and pushes the crystal towards her, deciding he was through offering information freely (not that he had, really).   
  
Also, his throat was sore.  
Amalie chuckled, noting with vague amusement than when he had 'just happened' upon her on her way to work with coffee he had also made a shot at a basket aka trash can. Just another case of all men really were just boys.  
  
She let the wine aerate in her glass, tracing the edge with the pad of her finger as she listened to the jazz and thought of an innocent enough question for him to answer.  
  
"Is jazz your favorite kind of music or did you just choose the most neutral kind to play? Cuz if you want to play some Britney Spears I promise not to hold it against you." Funny, wasn't it? Considering one of her songs...yeah, no one ever said she was funny.  
  
While pouring himself another glass (this time of the red wine as well, he didn't see her finishing the entire bottle by her lonesome), he finds himself laughing about something he wouldn't prefer to share: the memory of a teenage Tony singing Toxic with a hairbrush and doing the most utterly ridiculous dance moves -- worse even than the eleventh doctor! He chuckles, but shakes his head as he sets the bottle down and leans forward over the bar again.   
  
"I do have some Justin Timberlake." He offers first with a side smirk, before answering truthfully, "Both. I do like it for ambience, yes, but. Jazz is actually my favorite genre. Glenn Miller for all time, but--only downside of it in my mind is the fact that the best jazz tends to be improvisation."   
  
Amalie wasn't surprised; Tony had already shared his fondness (see: obsession) for the American prince of pop. If these brothers had aspects of a normal sibling relationship underneath all their issues and the mob and the hybridness, then Tony played Justin Timberlake for Olivier often enough that he both got sick of it and then secretly got into it. Darrell had done much the same to her with Marcel Mule, the classical French saxophonist.  
  
"Moi aussi," she agreed, nodding, "my father listened to nothing but jazz around the house. He moved to America as a child for some time with his parents, to New Orleans. He came back here, c'est sa patrie, France was number one in his heart, but he still says there's 'nothing like the big bands of the Big Easy'. He pushed my brother and me into jazz instruments when we were younger, actually. Wanted Darrell to play the sax and me the clarinet, but back then I always wanted to do the same as my brother did, so I wanted to play the saxophone too. I don't know if you can imagine a four year old me, trying to even hold a saxophone," she breaks off to laugh a little, shaking her head, "but it involved me setting it on a tabletop and then having to stand on a chair. I did eventually learn to play it though, say what you want about my stature, but I do have big lungs." Hey, certified diver, and aspiring mountain climber: she had some impressive lung capacity.  
  
Figuring she had spoken for long enough now that she could have a sip of her wine, she lifted the glass to her lips and had a drink. Amalie had never bought or even tasted this wine before (boycott, she couldn't support the D'Grey cartel with her money and sometimes that involved having to pass up on a lot of businesses and merchandise), but now she wished she could convince herself to bend the rules for this wine because it was good, damn it.  
  
"Do you play an instrument? Other than classical piano which I'm assuming was part of your tutelage or do you just have grand pianos in your home for the decoration?"  
  
The image of a little Amalie (he bites his tongue to hold back a comment that he imagined she was the size of a small beagle at that time) standing up and using the table to play the saxophone made him laugh in genuine earnest. Later, he'd think it proved multiple things about her; she was stubborn, she was determined, she was resourceful--she'd poke fun at herself and she'd pretend to play it his way. Now, he simply chuckles.  
  
"It is an amusing image, but for some reason, I'm not surprised you made it work."  
  
He sips the wine after she did, because he wasn't going to be rude and sip before her. It shows he trusts her judgment on it being long enough to aerate.   
  
(Plus it helped if he didn't look at the color of the wine.)   
  
"My tutelage?" He echoes her with another chuckle arching an eyebrow at her over the top of his glass. "Oh you mean when my father was teaching me the skills necessary to take over his empire? Piano playing was necessary definitely, so I could play soothing melodies to calm wildebeasts or seduce unsuspecting females."   
  
Oh, whoops, his sarcasm was back evidently. With a wide smirk he shakes his head.   
  
"I do play piano actually, yes, but nothing else. I do have a harp in the grand ballroom that's just for decoration now--my aunt played it, back in...you know, the 1920s."  
  
Wildebeest and unsuspecting females. The imagery was vivid and weird enough to make her laugh again.  
  
"I was assuming a schedule like 1-2, history of empires, 2:15 to 3:30, intimidation and manipulation, 3:45 to 5:00, piano lessons. You know, basic mobster education." She licked her lips, still tasting the wine on her tongue briefly. Even the after taste was pleasant.  
  
It was still so odd for her to comprehend he had an aunt in the 1920s, a full century ago. It made for a confusing timeline. Confusing but not abominable. He was born, at least she assumed he was born and didn't grow out of an egg, and therefore had just as much right to live, whatever religion dictated should occur. Well, he had as much right to live as what a jury of his peers would decide but she wasn't holding her breath for that one.   
  
"So is Tony you're only living family then?"  
  
"Don't forget 5:00 to 6:30's at the shooting range," Olivier says with a smirk, then waves his hand as he corrects (perfectly serious), "Actually, not at a shooting range, we had targets set up in a factory. No clip limit, see."  
  
Olivier takes yet another sip as he watches her as closely he can when the room had fuzzy edges, wondering if she was taking him seriously or not. Or wait, maybe he was the one not taking himself seriously. He hoped he wasn't, in any case. If he was, he'd be near threatening her again. (And he really, really wanted to know Daniella would be under his sheets when he went upstairs. Or hey, actually, about that grand piano--)  
  
"Mm, nope, not anymore. There's our Nonna in Roma, si, well, actually, she's the granddaughter of that aunt but," he waves it off with a smirk still wide. "And our mother, though as I've seen her a grand total of four times in my life, Tony's the only family I have left I grew up with."  
  
He didn't mention his sisters. Off the record or not, he was not risking that back to Ansel, not yet.   
  
"Remote and practical," she commented and was quite proud of herself for restraining a scoff or sarcastic tone. What had she said to him during their second meeting? That as long as you said everything with a smile, it was fair game. She wasn't sure that rule still applied when Olivier was plastered. Amalie took another sip of the wine, knowing how much drunk people were bothered around sober people.  
  
She nodded as she followed along, surprised to hear he knew his mother. For some reason, Amalie never pictured a mother, which was stupid because Olivier and Tony most certainly weren't delivered into the world out of D'Grey's ass.   
  
"It's much the same with me, dad was an only child so no cousins and no extended family I can think of. Grandmama lives in Cape Cod, she comes to visit almost every birthday, special occasion, and bank holiday," Amalie chuckled, her smile more genuine than it had been during their entire conversation, "and I'm close with Darrell but before Christmas a couple of weeks ago I hadn't seen my dad in a year. He's an ambassador for Egypt now."  
  
Nodding in amusement of her complacent agreement, he takes another heavy sip. Definitely practical--plus, hey, it was where he made his first kill! Maybe he should put that on a plaque. Actually, that was amusing, here he was always going on about the important contributions his Dad had made to society and there was no museum, nothing but that scholarship fund he worked out two years back for students of either biochemistry or criminal justice. (The irony of a D'Grey Foundation paying for a student to become a lawyer at the bar was just too good to pass up.)  
  
Still, what an idea! Maybe he could work on setting that up once this mess with the wolves and vampires and ninja turtles and whatever was all worked out.  
  
Olivier coughed to clear his throat, leaning further into the bar as he listened.  
  
"Huh, see, maybe we have more in common than you thought." Olivier winks at her before taking a much smaller sip (and reaching for the bottle to top her off).  
  
"Is he?" Olivier asked, as if he didn't already know that. Avenier was a household name in politics - rather, Darrell was angling to make it so, which meant Olivier had accepted the inevitable, steps ahead of the rest of the country. Part of his tutelage, ha.  
  
"Always wanted to go to Egypt." He comments, apparently idle as Miller hit the top note on the sax behind them. "See the pyramids. You know one of the first pharoahs was a werewolf? He claimed it was a gift from God. Course then he died childless, or rather, of official children--there's a small pack outside Cairo that claim descendence off him and a slave woman. But then you know how many people claim impressive ancestors to make themselves feel less ordinary, so, who knows."   
  
"So it appears," she muses, licking her lips again as he fills her glass again even though it hadn't been even close to half finished. Amalie didn't mind, and if she could trust him with anything, it was to *not* get her drunk and attempt to take advantage. After all, why else would they be playing nice if not for Dani's sake? Well, that was the main reason at least. She could also trust him to be duplicitous.  
  
"My mother's family is from Egypt, that's partially why he took the job, a way to stay close to her," she nodded, understanding her father completely. The way she stayed connected with her own mother was through her magic.  
  
"The Wepwawet tribe," Amalie nodded with a grin, "Grandmama told me stories. To this day I still don't know which are real and which ones she embellished to her me and Darrell to go to sleep earlier." They were all probably a bit embellished though, her grandmother was quite the storyteller.  
  
"Yeah, I've met some like that, and then worse, the ones with actual impressive ancestors. Has Daniella told you the story of her ancestor Damocles? Just run before she gets started, for your sake." It was mostly a tease. Mostly.   
  
...He wasn't even going to attempt to say that word, no. A sarcastic, insensitive mobster he might be, but he was no racist. Just attempting to say that this drunk would seem mocking.   
  
Smirking, he does add, "Aha, oh, I'd imagine the more fantastical it was the more truth there was. At least, that's how it was with my father's stories."   
  
Although perhaps she wouldn't want her grandmother's stories compared to his father's. Well, he supposes that was the 'normal' thing, per usual the opposite of what he was but, he shrugs a shoulder and just goes for his wine glass again, utterly fascinated.  
  
"This is the same Grandmother that gave you the book you used the day we met then?"  
  
When she you know, just opened (mentally) another person's skull to slip inside it. But obviously he, was the dangerous one.  
  
Then he chuckles, nodding.  
  
"Ah, I have heard a few stories."  
  
Amalie didn't even try to imagine any of the fantastical stories that Olivier's father would have told him growing up. She would stick with her grandmother's stories, no matter how wild and potentially immoral they might have been. The known was always safer than the unknown.  
  
"Her tome, yeah, it was her grandmother's and so on and so forth I assume," she nodded, having an inkling of what he was thinking about: the magic she and Dani had used the day she had met Olivier.  
  
Amalie took another drink and then lifted two fingers to her forehead and clicked her thumb, making a 'pew' noise with her mouth. Shoot herself in the head.   
  
  
Interest piqued even as she seemed to dismiss her own comment (which Olivier knew was a common tell for what was most likely important) he was still sidetracked as she faked shooting herself. Was he not supposed to laugh at that? Respect for his girlfriend or you know, the fact that his laughing at violent death was probably insensitive too? Oops. He was laughing.   
  
"Aha, yeah. To be quite honest Amalie," as if he hadn't been since she first walked in on his rambling, "I perfected the art of pretending to be listening to tales like that with all interest when I was six years old."   
  
He finished the glass, pushing it back down the bar and then sliding around it himself to head to the couch (he was not going to keep upright for too much longer). As he lands, he sighs aloud.  
  
"I do sincerely appreciate you coming to tell me she had nothing to do with painting my annoyingly self-righteous brother as a murderer, though. Grazie, cara. She does know how to tell a story though, doesn't she? Something you both are good at, actually."  
  
"I envy you that much," Amalie took another sip, idly passing over the insinuation that she didn't envy anything else about him or his life, except maybe the fact that he got to bang the sex goddess of her best friend, but nothing else.  
  
"Being false doesn't come naturally," she added brightly. Actually, most of what other people would consider to be her most obvious traits didn't come naturally either. It was tough work! Then again, Amalie preferred it that way.  
  
"Well, I couldn't let her take the credit," she swiveled in the bar stool to face Olivier again as he went to sit down at a couch instead. He was pretty shit-faced, which is probably why she didn't point out that he didn't paint Tony as anything other than a man who had committed a crime, ergo the truth. You don't kick a guy when he's down.  
  
Tilting her head as he unintentionally compliments her story-telling, a corner of her lips turn upwards as she 'aaws', "See? Now I'm fully flattered, not just half."   
  
"That much." He echoes with a little chuckle in the word, just to let her know that even plastered, he caught her double meaning. Ha, he thinks, even Amalie Avenier was envious of him -- but then, most in France were, as they should be. But being false doesn't come naturally? That makes the laugh bright for a moment, as the flames were, and die in his throat at the same time.  Perhaps not naturally, but she was right before about his tutelage, and when someone trained for that many years to be false, could he be anything else?   
  
Raising a hand to his forehead and rubbing hard, back and forth for a moment before he smirks wider at that and nods, hand dropping in to his lap as she swivels.  
  
"Yeah? Good then, I," he raises his hand to gesture at her and then back to his lap, "aim to please. No arguments over technicalities then? Wonderful. Because we both know what your story did for my brother's image which, hey, not like he doesn't have experience with legions of people he's never met hating him, so, nothing new." He shrugs a shoulder, rubbing over his lips to scratch away the frown.   
  
"I like that you take the credit." Olivier revealed, perfectly genuine. It was something he did: at least she wasn't pretending to be anyone else.   
  
"So you play the saxophone, went to university, you want to start a strictly magical broadcast news network--I think that's brilliant, by the way. Absolutely. I'd offer to financially back you, only I know you won't take my money, so," he shrugs a shoulder, pulling his phone out, checking an app before tossing it to Amalie before adding still casual, "And you've just received four hundred thousand and six hits in the last two hours on your article. If you want that app, by the way, I can send you the code."  
  
She couldn't get anywhere else on the phone without his password, so he had no problem handing it over anyways.  
  
And there it was, the leak. The leak was a detail that kept coming out during conversations, until the leak put too much pressure on the concrete wall that held the dam back and the water finally came rushing out. In this case the water was Tony. Of course but because it was D'Grey it was the most calm appearing flash flood that it could be.  
  
He tossed his phone at her but rather than catch it she just let it bang the edge of the bar and then clatter against the floor. Whoops, her bad. Amalie took another sip of the wine, finally taking her eyes off Olivier for a second.  
  
"I didn't print that article to hurt Tony. I don't think he should be in jail. Those men he killed had rap sheets almost a mile long, and an attorney can't properly defend him to humans that don't even know magic exists. And frankly, fine, I'm fond of him, I'd rather he not go to jail.  
  
But every article written until now always somehow led back to you. The world doesn't revolve around D'Grey. So I made it about Tony, his actions, his choices, his consequences, and fuck D'Grey. That's what I do, I uncover the truth and then I publish it. I can back up all my facts in every single article I've written with some kind of audiovisual proof. I'm very difficult to lie to." Amalie took another sip and then uncrossed her legs to step off the bar stool.  
  
"So yes, I take the credit for letting France and potentially the rest of the world know that your brother is a killer. It's going to be years before anyone forgets his face and sees anything but those red and black eyes and that blood on his mouth. And Antonio will either prove them wrong or right. High road or low road," her eyebrows arched momentarily as he used Olivier's terms from before.  
  
"And if I get more information about the trial or crime, I'll keep printing it. If you take the low road to get your brother free, I'll be there to uncover what you hide. My credibility is finally in the right position with this recent article. I will systematically expose as much about you and your organization as I can. I may not want to attack Tony, I may be even reluctant to attack you, but I will attack everything you stand for, and the empire you keep, taking it away brick by brick because that's all I can do. And I won't have moral obstructions keeping me from choosing the low road any time I have to."  
  
Amalie had to refrain from reaching for the wine again, bye bye wonderful drink skin to nectar of the gods. What she does to instead is keeping looking at him and fighting herself to ensure she doesn't show how out of her mind frightened she was at the moment.  
  
The tirade fell against buzzing ears as he seems to regard his phone clattering on the floor with mild bemusement, as if he was listening to an entertaining comedy program in the background while trying to figure out how a vital piece of his everyday life lay forgotten and potentially broken. He doesn't have anyone to blame but himself for throwing it, after all. With an exhale like the Lamborghini's exhaust pipe, slow and smooth, he nods just once.  
  
Brave of her, all that she said--the only sticking point that nagged at him at first was her statement she didn't want Tony to go to jail. Go? He was there. He was there, in a jail cell, blocked in with three walls and one made of bars he couldn't bend or open, sleeping on a scratchy mattress and sharing shower space with men who hate him for no reason but his last name. A trifling technicality in her language to trouble himself off, the truth of his brother's isolated misery--they were the same thing. And there she was giving the whole of France the image she describes so vividly to make sure everyone had a reason to loathe him now. People who had never met him, people who would rant against him just to be cool. Newscasters would have special commentary to bolster their reputations as moderates with the 'courage to stand against the D'Grey narrative', as if that wasn't something Tony himself had done since he was nine. Website petitions would arm legions of faux, lazy activists against his brother, the one who only ever wanted to be loved.  
  
Low flames in his chest ignite and simmer in his chest. What gave them the right to pass judgement against--ha, no, it wasn't about rights. (It's never about right and wrong, especially here in his Paris.)  
  
Amalie made a speech as impressive as the fabled Damocles they'd been joking about. Anger in his throat as he finally lifts his gaze from the broken screen, he doesn't move anything but his eyes.   
  
"Curious." The word was hot on the parched tongue before it sticks to the roof. "One would almost believe you only care about the truth, you do such an impressive job of casually mentioning how you 'finally' have the credibility. How you do your job so by the book, you fact check, you double check with audiovisuals--not once, cara, do I believe I insinuated I don't take you seriously. This is no game, and you are no joke, so there is no need for you to keep acting like I've dismissed you."  
  
Now he does move, just tilting his head an inch, neck pitched down as he raises a hand to lower the flames behind them without leaving the couch. Shadows cast the dimlit room in gold and jade green off the curtains that cover the hole his brother made in the wall. When he flicks his eyes back to her, his voice crackles in disconcerting harmony with the marble fireplace.  
  
"You used my brother, Amalie. You've used his face," he gets off the couch now, "to make the statement to the world that you have the courage to threaten me, and by making the article and image all about him, and his plight, you've made it so when I do succeed now in getting him out, Paris will hate him, and love you, and you've done it all under the guise of the truth and a trumped-up responsibility to make it about who he is as a person. Tony thinks he's a monster. Tony has thought that since he was fourteen, and now you're the one that has made sure the world is going to keep telling him he is one so don't--do not," his voice raised for the first time, with his hand, as he struck at the air, "do not say you helped him by forcing him to face the awful truth. Because it isn't the truth, Amalie-as you just said yourself. You like him personally, and yet publically that photograph -- one small image of one small day that had hundreds of other context to it, the least of which being that Tony was being blackmailed, is going to make sure people loathe him."  
  
 He stops walking, near her now and looking down, voice only a whisper.   
  
"I meant it, when I said you tell a good story. That's all the press is, Miss Avenier. Truth is decided by what's printed. So congratulations, you told the truth. Next time, you might want to consider who the people I've allegedly killed are, because they don't all have rap sheets longer than Santa's naughty list doubled, and I assure you, my road's lower than yours."  
  
He raises his hand and points behind him to the door.  
  
"Now. Finish your wine or don't, but it is time for you to go. Good night, Miss Avenier, and as for taking me down," he reached over her shoulder for the wine bottle, pouring his own shot and gulping it down, before the wild brilliant smirk reappears. The glass points to the ceiling and the door.  
  
"I wish you all the luck and happiness in doing so."  
  
There was something clear, something bright as if he tells her to go win the lottery, in the way he says 'happiness' that leaves no doubt D'Grey knew there was only misery down that path.   
  
Well, so much for playing nice. Her chin came up instinctively as she swallowed a sudden lump that was stuck in her throat. It took all she had not to take three steps back for every step he took forward, and to not look away. Amalie didn't even blink.  
  
A tingling sensation pricked at her fingers, the instinct to protect herself forming into a single spell, but she was either too frightened or not frightened enough to use it. Later she would be thankful she didn't, now she was practically begging for a reason.  
  
Managing a smile of her own as he finished talking, she decides to take the threat and intimidation in stride. Just another reason she wouldn't be deterred; he was just another person she would have to prove wrong.  
  
"Always a pleasure, Olivier," she grabbed her coat without looking away yet, "see you around." She put on her coat and then walked out of the room, boots clicking against the hardwood floor. It was only when she was out of the manor that she went back to breathing normally. Taking her phone out, she walked to the main gate as she called for a cab.   
  
Not sure whether or not that had gone better or worse than what she had thought, Amalie didn't know yet but she did know one thing now. Tony had killed his father. That information was worth the fright of her life.   
  



	26. Which, brother are you with again?

The voice was crisp and amused as the door swings open, keys still jangling in Amalie's hand.  
  
"Well, now I know why you've been avoiding my calls all day--," there was a sharp smack of the newspaper striking the glass table, photograph front and center in all it's red, bloody glory, "and been so distant all week. Didn't want to make things awkward between me and my boyfriend, that's fair, I appreciate it, but really cheri, I kind of hope you can trust me mo--"  
  
Standing in cerulean suede and stilettos against the opening to the island in the kitchen, Daniella takes one look at Amalie's face and cuts off mid thought. Tone losing the faked (mostly) amusement, breath skips out on her, but she doesn't let that stop her.  
  
"'Mali? Honey, what is it, what happened?"  
  
Pouring herself another glass of wine as she kept going through her messages, she leaned against the kitchen counter and took a heavy draught of wine she didn't even bother letting breathe for however long it needed to. Now that she was back in her apartment, thinking clearly (er, kind of), the only word she had said aloud for the past few minutes was 'fuck' and slight derivations of the word.  
  
Pressing the delete button on yet another message from Darrell, she turns to look at Dani as she walks in, already mid-sentence. Amalie smiled briefly, but then took another drink. She had gone to D'Grey's -because- she didn't want Daniella put in a position where she'd be forced to defend her against Tony and instead Amalie just decided to, you know, fire a proverbial warning shot in the D'Grey living room.  
  
"Apart from my ex insinuating I'm a cold, heartless bitch?" She shrugged, having already forgotten that by the time she brought it up. Wow, that really happened today too?  
  
"Miiiight have done something a little rash," she pinched her fingers together before adding, "You know, apart from publishing that picture."  
  
"Mmm, merci," she says, pointing at the wine bottle to insistently and smirking ask for a glass herself, then frowns with her eyebrows. "Leo?"  
  
That stirred something in her memory; Leo knew Tony pretty well, she thought. Great. Prosecutor being biased wasn't bad or anything.  
  
Fiddling with her ring, thumb over the amethysts, she guesses in another look as she leans over the bar.  
  
"You went to see Olivier, didn't you?"  
  
"Rawr," she provided as an affirmative answer, walking over to get a glass for Dani and began to pour some wine for her too. And then she added more to her glass too and then there was no wine. Amalie then took another sip and then reluctantly nodded.  
  
"Yes, because I didn't want him to think that you knew what I was up to! Perfect, logical reasoning. I was playing nice," she brought the glass to her mouth and then said quickly against the rim, "until I wasn't, shh," another sip.  
  
Perfect, logical reasoning so long as you discount the fact that Amalie had walked head on into a mafiosa capo's house after outing his brother in the press but, then again, that was why Daniella could guess easily what she'd done. It made sense to her too. Wiping over the back of her lips after a small sip to rid herself of the discomfort in her stomach, she eyes how quickly Amalie downed it. Ah. And if she went to Olivier--  
  
Yeah. Daniella put the glass back down reluctant and resigned to the idea she has to be the sober sponser for the evening.   
  
Exhaling, she chews on her purple lip before prompting, "Which he figured out I'm sure, and then you...?"  
  
Amalie put a hand against her chest and then batted her eyelashes purposefully to mimic the way Daniella so often did, "Me? I didn't start, maybe I did yes. He was plastered and understandably upset and sarcastically bitchy in that way you *know* I can't stand. You know!" Amalie nodded importantly and then went to grab another bottle.  
  
"Still, I should have just," she pulls an imaginary zipper over her mouth, "but instead I may have told him, in the process of not apologizing for publishing that picture, and taking full credit for the whole world hating his brother, that I will take down everything he stood for brick by brick."   
  
Popping out the cork of the wine bottle, she leaned over to fill Daniella's glass to the top and then motioned for her to drink too.  
  
"It was like it wasn't me in that body! It was like I was looking at a way tougher, more badass, fearless, hotter version of me of which I," she put her hand over her chest again, "had no control over."  
  
Daniella's eyes were as round as the crystal they held by the end of her explanation, rounder each clause added. That was... incredible, and more so when you took into account the fact she had never seen Olivier drunk.   
  
At least that was worth a drink, yes. She took a sip as prompted (sip here having the definition of an entire half of the glass) and then just gasps, sets it down across the way and holds her hand up first for a high five.   
  
If she didn't high-five that she couldn't consider herself Amalie's best friend or a successful Bad Influence.  
  
Then she reminded herself of each and every point and found herself sitting on top of the counter before she could even begin to craft a response.   
  
"Okay. So. Proud as I am for you taking credit for the whole world and standing your ground, uhm. Sarcastically bitchy to who if you didn't...start it? Stef?"  
  
And Daniella was uncomfortable, because she felt she could understand why Olivier would have wanted to be plastered after that photograph surfacing in the paper.  
  
But none of this was the reason Amalie was drinking so heavily either, she knew, so she adds as she continues spinning the amethysts around her finger, "And what else?"  
  
As Daniella holds her hand up for the high five, Amalie laughs once and then did just that. And the fact that she didn't hit her friend in the face meant that she wasn't drunk yet! Not completely, it wasn't like she had opened the previous bottle, it had already been opened...she thought.  
  
"I don't know, some girl named Audrey? Except she wasn't there, he was talking to himself. Actually it was pretty funny in retrospect." Now that she was here and safe she meant, because it hadn't been that amusing back then.  
  
"And as he rambled about Tony taking the high road and him taking the low road, and he getting to Scotland afoooooreee yee," oh sue her, she'd been wanting to sing that since the manor, "he revealed something."  
  
Pause for another drink of wine, not effect, even if she did drop the volume of her voice, "about how his father died." Amalie looked at her friend for a reaction and then straightened up.  
  
"You already know."  
  
The idea that Olivier was rambling out to thin air (about apparently deep dark secrets), plastered was...honestly incongruous, incredible to her. She was half tempted to hop right back off the counter to hurry over to see it before he collapsed asleep but figures, considering the boy's stamina she was going to be locked down there the rest of the evening. Maybe literally actually--  
  
\--holy fuck rewind, he revealed that!?   
  
Guilty, she bites down hard on her lip again now and drops her shoulders.  
  
"Well, there goes all of my high ground over the fact you left me in the dark." The words were bright, but honest instead of sarcastic. Her hands clap together and she nods to admit she did (like she hadn't already). Quietly now, there was no way to be anything but serious.  
  
"Tony told me." She licks her lip. "Second time we met. Remember how he cooked me dinner and Wolfie crashed? Hans also...mentioned that if I was refusing to eat with willful murderers that left Tony out. He came over the day after or...rather, crashed at their penthouse and half kicked me out of it but we shared those chocolates...he told me. For a few reasons. First," she holds her finger up, "as he knew my curiosity wouldn't just go away. Second, as I was telling him too. Third because he wanted to warn me what he was willing to do to protect his brother. Said he thought I was getting closer to his brother than he'd ever seen and that it could put me in a position to wound him and he wanted me to know he'd been willing to kill his own father and the only parent Oli had."  
  
She pauses, then shakes her entire body to get rid off shivers and runs hands and amethysts through her hair.   
  
"It also...made me realize how completely Tony disregards himself for his brother, and...well, vice versa, and that dammit these boys were already under my skin and in my heart. I didn't get details. What did...he actually say?"  
  
"And suddenly my conscious is clear," she declares after Daniella admitted to having known. A secret for a secret, and all of a sudden they were back on the same page. Amalie didn't begrudge Daniella not telling her, after all it was sensitive information to say the very least.  
  
Momentarily surprised that it was Tony who had revealed the truth and not Olivier, upon further thought she realized no, that made perfect sense. To hear she had been informed so early on confused Amalie but as Dani explained Tony's intentions, she had to keep from shuddering. Honestly, you would think after seeing that picture Amalie wouldn't be surprised of what Tony could be capable of. Threatening Daniella on their second meeting like that? That didn't seem like quite the high road to her.  
  
Look at that, she wasn't feeling that bad anymore for Tony being in jail. Kind of. Okay, that didn't last very long.  
  
"That his father fought his mother for him and Tony, that Tony killed him, the same father who had abused and neglected Tony but that miraculously could only ever love him. I lied, I heard quite a lot more than just a declaration of who killed their father. Still," Amalie took another sip and then leaned off the counter to hit Daniella's thigh.  
  
"I told you five years ago, there was a power shift. I told you! I said Remington was killed. I told papers and reporters, did no one listen? Nooo, little 17 year old Amalie way in over her head, but I was right!" She pumped a fist in the air momentarily before realizing suddenly what this meant.  
  
"Dani, you know I have to look further into this."  
  
As Amalie shares her shudder, Daniella slips back off the counter. The stilettos click hangs in her ear, shaking like a bell ringing in a church tower that still echoes it's holy haunt of a melody. She rubs at the flesh of it, irritated by her poetry. A habit of good wine, she thinks and then laughs, proud abruptly as Amalie slaps her thigh.  
  
"You did," she says sheepish and falling into the seat next to her friend. "You did tell me. I guess I was still daydreaming about the day I got to take him down myself for what he did to my family."   
  
She says this absently, twisting a curl around her finger as if she's trying very hard not to connect that to her previous statement of Tony's threat, the fact she could be in a place to harm his brother. And failing. As her friend stills, Daniella meets her eyes again and says just as fervently as her, "Tony won't hurt me."  
  
She can't explain why she knows that, it just feels true, deep in her bones. Biting her tongue at what she already knew, she nods offhand and then takes Amalie's hands tightly, holding on.  
  
"Amalie, I know, just... listen to me. Or rather, what you just said. Olivier and his brother have spent their lives at the mercy of their father, now of his memory and legacy...and I just, I don't think they deserve that."  
  
She let's one hand go to wipe over her face, wearied by the thought.   
  
"All that Oli...said, God, I can't believe he just said that aloud, I've never heard him do that, seriously, or...even talk about his father, but, who could miraculously only love him? I know Oli's fucked up, trust me, but it sounds to me like having his father's affection is as much as a curse as his brother never having it and I...I, well I," her voice stops and drops and she let's her friend's hands go before pulling back in the seat, "I understand that."  
  
Amalie's small triumph didn't last very long, not only because of the haunting realization that she was about to go even further in to some dangerous territory but also because Dani's words were proving to be sobering as well. Daniella had always wanted justice, as well as vengeance, she still did, but she hadn't expected to fall so hard for D'Grey. Both of them, actually. Antonio might be three or four years their senior but Dani saw him as a little sibling half of the time. The other half of the time he was too yummy to think of being related to him.  
  
Her reach for the drink was cut short by Daniella taking her hands. Realizing that was doing more to help than guzzling down red wine, Amalie squeezed her hands back, keeping her gaze trained. It wasn't often that Daniella spoke against Amalie sticking her nose in so if she offered caution, it was usually wise to listen.  
  
But...  
  
Amalie sighed and finally did reach for her glass again but rather than take a sip she tapped her nails and stared at the liquid inside.  
  
"I'm not going to torment them with it, but I do need to know more. Remington was basically vampire royalty in Paris, he was killed, so who was blamed? Obviously not Tony. I need to know yet again how many people were victims in a D'Grey cover up." She tried not to think of that witness Ansel had hidden somewhere. Now that Olivier was pretty sure of himself that's where she had gotten the information, correctly sure of himself okay, it was riskier than ever.  
  
Amalie leaned back against the seat too and exhaled, "So when are you gonna head over there?" Poor guy needed at least a hug, on top of a new phone. Though then again, maybe he needed to just mindlessly shag and drink her best friend's blood. She had rattled him quite a bit after all. Small victories, she thought as she took a sip.  
  
Shifting in her seat uncomfortably, Daniella says softly first, "That's a good question."   
  
Of course it was, and it was a question she hadn't asked intentionally, and as such rather expects Tonio had done the same. She eyes the wine glass but knows she's going to need strength tonight, not liquid courage, if she decides to go over there.   
  
(Ha, as if it was choice; she has too much pent up curiosity and angst to not talk to her boyfriend now over this too).  
  
"In a little," she answers, but hasn't broken eye contact with Amalie when she waves that off to observe instead, "You didn't say he won't hurt me."  
  
It was just a key...little detail she noticed, really, no big deal. Daniella tugs her curl fighter.  
  
"That photograph...," she looks back at it, this time without shivering. "That's not the first time I saw him...like that. The day in the village hamlet, that attack in England--he killed two of the attackers...er, maybe more, I'm nor sure, but I found him hovering over two of them. Blood on his mouth, eyes...just like that. Only he was holding himself back from indulging in those bodies too and when he saw me...'Malie, he panicked, first he tried to get me to leave, then he crumpled, enough I was able to get him out of there and back to the penthouse. He looked..."  
  
She wrinkles her nose, itching from the irony.  
  
"Like Dylan used to. When he went through withdrawal. He didn't even once try to hurt me, Amalie, he just curled up in my shoulder and then downed an entire bottle of Jack Daniels and went to sleep."  
  
"I fully expect you to hurt him right back if he does," she chose to say instead. Whatever certain belief Dani held, Amalie wasn't filled with the same. The fact of the matter was that no matter how close Daniella could get, she'd always been an outsider to those brothers. It was them and then it was the world. They didn't allow room for anyone else, and well let's face it: the only two vampire/human hybrids in existence didn't make for safe company.  
  
"I suppose that's the ticket then, isn't it?" Tony's struggle with his blood mirrored, in Daniella's mind, even if only momentarily, her younger brother Dylan's own struggle. Daniella could be sympathetic to Tony where most would be judgmental and afraid. Tony did get points for not harming Dani as she helped him.  
  
"Just checking," she tried to tease a little, "which, brother are you with again?"  
  
"It went without saying," Daniella says conversational and winking even as she cringes mentally. Hurt him? The world hadn't done that enough? But she knew Amalie was more pragmatic about it than she'd been letting herself be, so she just shakes it off with another shrug for now. Her lips were parched enough she starts rounding the bar to go get water.  
  
Laughing as she turns the sink on, she answers briefly, "Oh, threesome, obviously. Solves all problems, babe." There was a part of her, and she's not sure how big a part but it certainly feels like it took up a good amount of her, that seriously believed that. It was too bad they were brothers (except no it wasn't because she defies anyone to tell her they weren't better off having each other).   
  
Clearing her throat with a sip of water, she speaks quietly again a head tilt, "I saw him in jail too you know. Few days back. He seemed...bored, antsy, but also just..lost. I think there's a part of him that's been grateful for the chance to atone, however much he doesn't want to be in prison."  
  
The familiar phrase brought a smile and a chuckle to her lips. Daniella's been saying that, or variants of that with the word threesome usually replaced by the word orgy, practically since they met. French girls tended to mature faster than most women to begin with, but Daniella had practically been born as an adult.  
  
"Really?" Amalie's nose wrinkled as she tried to picture anyone being grateful to be in prison. So did that mean that Tony himself could believe that he deserved to be in there?  
  
"Oh, hey, you actually haven't told me- would you rather have preferred I hadn't published that article then?"  
  
  
Daniella bit her lip again, unable to help herself. It was silly, Olivier was going to bite it for her soon enough, she was certain.   
  
"Aw, come on Amalie you knowww I hate living with what 'should' have happened..."  
  
Her hands reach for a few of the dishes, starting to finish loading Amalie's dishwasher just to give her hands something to do. The amethyst ring she slips onto the tail miniature cat statue on the top of the sink so she won't lose it or get the gems wet.  
  
Smirk fading she shrugs a shoulder while lathering a plate and says, "I think it was the right choice for you. And I'm overjoyed knowing it'll make it easier to get him out, because it will. I...am curious where you got the photo, though."  
  
"Shame on you, Daniella," she clicked her tongue and turned to sit in the chair with her chest against the back of it so she could still talk to her friend as she started doing the dishes. Watch out, Dani dear, your motherly instinct is showing.  
  
"I don't reveal my sources," she teased as she reached again for her glass and took a smaller sip than before. No, the truth was she trusted Daniella implicitly, mobster boyfriend or not. And besides, speaking of people she needed to look further into, Daniella could help to shade some light on her source, more specifically elaborate on his connection to the D'Greys.  
  
"It was Ansel Dorat. He read the article I wrote on Notre Dame and contacted me, said he had more info so naturally," she gestured with her hand the fact she couldn't pass up an opportunity like that.  
  
"Please tell me you told Olivier that." Daniella teases over the clatter of fork on plate and then pauses, fork in the air, "Ah correction, tell Tony you told him that, I'm sure you can smooth things over  demonstrations of his OTP."  
  
That was actually true, Daniella thought, as she bent to put the fork in the washer. There was no shame meant in it either. Telling Tony that meant you listened to him, appreciated his bizarre takes on the world and attempts at making insensitive jokes. It could only ever go to helping him feel valued at best and let him make jokes at worst, so why not?  
  
Ansel Dorat. Daniella flicked her eyes back over in slight surprise. She hadn't seen him in...well, years, and the idea he was against the brothers--openly enough to declare war, was shiver enducing. And what else was putting Tony in jail but that?  
  
"Yeah, well he would...as he was there." Daniella said first, standing back up and reaching for another plate hesitantly. "That...so, he's the reason they had the evidence?"  
  
"Word for word, I think," she nodded, trying not to smirk because she knew the only reason she could manage to smirk about it now was because of all the alcohol in her system and the fact that she was in her tiny but safe and warm apartment, talking to her best friend. Put her in front of Olivier again and she would go back to being on edge.  
  
"I'll keep that in mind," Amalie said genuinely, knowing she was definitely not going to be on the list of Tony's favorite people when he got out. Reporters didn't make many friends, so she was fully prepared to never speak to Tony again if that's what he wanted but it would be easier if he learned to forgive her. Big golden brown eyes, don't fail me now!  
  
"That much he said," Amalie nodded, shrugging her shoulders. Actually he had said a couple of other things too.  
  
"Yes, he's the one that supplied it to the police. Apparently he's made it his mission to end the drugs on the streets." With good reason. It was no secret what Ansel and his then girlfriend Colette got up to outside of school, sometimes even in school.  
  
"He doesn't like Tony very much. Well, either of them very much."  
  
Daniella feels her insides squirm again, a mental cringe in response as she drops the plate in too. Yes, wonderful, so she agreed with what Ansel wanted to do. That doesn't mean she has to like his methods, she wants to take refuge in thinking except...all he did is hand in evidence and give it to her friend. So really her problem was the outdated Napoleanic Code and this premise of holding a trial of non-supes for supernatural crimes. See, there we go, reconciled!  
  
"No, they don't." That she could focus on easier, chuckling a bit as she added, "They've both slept with Stef in the last month and a half, so, that's not helping either."   
  
She reaches for a spoon, cleaning it off, but instead of putting it in the wash too she uses it as a baton to point to Amalie as she kicks the door back up. "Ice cream?"  
  
There has to be.  
  
"Ah, the plot thickens," she commented with a chuckle. As curious as Amalie was, when it came to relationship gossip, she tended to veer away. Possibly because it resembled too much the tabloids she had a profound distaste for.  
  
"Stefanie's got admirers everywhere. Darrell asked me about her after his fundraiser." Obviously, Stefanie was a model after all. Usually not her brother's type but then again 'woman' was Darrell's type.   
  
"Butterscotch flavor," Amalie nodded, pointing at the freezer. It was Amalie's favorite...of the month; she tried not to buy the same flavor of ice cream twice but alas, limited choices. So she tried the 'no same flavor of ice cream in a year' approach. Much more doable.  
  
Immediately veering towards the fridge with the spoon like a woman on a singular mission, Daniella chuckles again.  
  
"Yeah, not surprised. Did you tell him she's vamped, and not in the you know...upping everything around her way like saying 'ramped up' with a French accent but -vamped- as in I-want-to-drink-your-blood?"  
  
Aha! Butterscotch. She pulls it out and sets on the counter, now reaching for paper towels to clean off her hands and reach for the ring. It settled back on her finger making her sigh aloud. Odd, she thinks, how naked she'd felt without wearing it when she hadn't had it a month ago.  
  
"I can give him tips." She teases, hands on the knobs and wrenching the cabinet open as she goes for bowls for them both. "Really, it can be quite pleasurable cheri, oui."  
  
"Yes I did, and he tells me," she clears her throat to try and mimic his brother's deeper voice, "oh ho! See, now things make sense." Amalie rolled her eyes and then cleared her throat before she explained.  
  
"It's not that I don't like Stefanie, because I do, the brief moments I've met her at least, not that I imagine she likes me much anymore, but I would prefer she stay away from my brother." Far away. And keep her hands and fangs to herself. And to Tony, she supposed, and Ansel apparently. Anyone else she wanted really! Go nuts, just not with Darrell.  
  
"I'll take your word for it. Personally, it's not something I'm willing to try. But you knock yourself out." Or, let her boyfriend do it for her, whichever. Amalie took a drink and exhaled. She was exhausted, it was such a long week. Making her favorite pillow float over to her, she hugged it to her chest.  
  
The impersonation makes Dani chuckle, mimicking the same deep voice as she adds, "So she's going to be that young and hot forever?"  
  
At least, she figured that was something the guys would think. Scooping the ice cream out, a fist punches the air as she realizes, "Aha, whipped cream, jackpot!"   
  
She licks some off the tip of her finger before adding it, still listening offhand.  
  
"I get it, trust me. Stef's a little...er. Volatile. Course I like that about her but you know."  
  
A little volatile, ha! Just a bit of an understatement but hey, her father was English after all. Stuffing half the ice cream bowl in her mouth to carry it with her own teeth, the whipped cream, and her half finished wine glass around the table, she sits back down next to her friend.  
  
"Yeah, and I get that too. But ahem. Enough boy talk. What did your -publisher- say? Because if he doesn't give you a raise after that scoop, I mean, seriously!"  
  
"Yes I did, and he tells me," she clears her throat to try and mimic his brother's deeper voice, "oh ho! See, now things make sense." Amalie rolled her eyes and then cleared her throat before she explained.  
  
"It's not that I don't like Stefanie, because I do, the brief moments I've met her at least, not that I imagine she likes me much anymore, but I would prefer she stay away from my brother." Far away. And keep her hands and fangs to herself. And to Tony, she supposed, and Ansel apparently. Anyone else she wanted really! Go nuts, just not with Darrell.  
  
"I'll take your word for it. Personally, it's not something I'm willing to try. But you knock yourself out." Or, let her boyfriend do it for her, whichever. Amalie took a drink and exhaled. She was exhausted, it was such a long week. Making her favorite pillow float over to her, she hugged it to her chest.  
  
Savoring another long bite of ice cream, she pulls her legs up to sit cross over the stool and listens to the numbers. It sounds to her as if Amalie was telling her sports figures and...well honestly, those were much more exciting to a publicist like her than any amount of football scores ever could be. A little confused to the momentary falter in the list, Daniella decides to act as if it's not there and just leans over to high five her again.  
  
"And then some, I'd say." Daniella says, satisfied and for the first time feeling a bit relieved by this information. That meant more people would read Amalie's byline, meant they could get more truth out there...now if only she could convince Cariah here to work together on a positive message and positive society at the same time.  
  
"About damn time. That dick is overdue in a bonus for you, I still want to kick his ass for paying Stephan more than you last year. Er. Well, I mean, kick his ass again. I knowww I had to snoop to find that out but I don't care, dick deserved it."  
  
Amalie nodded, pointed at Dani and then tapped her nose to say 'correct!' Even if Darrell didn't say those exact words aloud, they were basically written all over his face.  
  
Chuckling as Daniella balanced the bowls of ice cream, whipped cream, and her wine, Amalie shook her head and took another drink before turning in her chair again and reaching for the ice cream. Yummy.  
  
"Well Jerome threatened to fire me, again but that was yesterday. He almost had a heart attack," can't say she would have been too sad, "but already by midday we had sold more newspapers than the past two months combined, -and- the hits online," here she faltered realizing where she'd actually gotten the numbers from and then cleared her throat, "close to half a million."  
  
Licking ice cream off her spoon, she grins, "So I say that justifies the 20% increase in my salary I negotiated and a nice little bonus coming my way."  
  
With an enthusiastic, long lingering lick of nostalgia she accents with a 'mmmm' that has nothing (or okay not nothing, maybe just a little) to do with the butterscotch, she adds almost conversationally pleasant, "Stephan's quite good in bed too."  
  
There's a lip smack as she pops the spoon free. After a wink and swivel on the chair as if to say 'ooh-ho burn', she goes for another small sip of wine too.  
  
"No but, seriously I saved that article he wrote for soft core porn." She nods, chuckling. "Well that and I stuck it on the wall of my office. Oh! Did I tell you, I promoted Dawn? She's co-editing with me some of my clients now to give me more time to work on a certain someone's campaign."  
  
She winks.  
  
High fiving Daniella again, Amalie was back to beaming and grinning, like she should have been the whole day honestly. Sure, maybe celebrating was too harsh a word but it was also the most honest one. One man's trash, another man's treasure and all that jazz.  
  
"I remember oh defender-of-my-honor," Amalie grinned at her best friend fondly, as if snooping and kicking ass was such an endearing thing to do (it was), "inspired a little fear in Stephan too when he caught wind of it. Wrote quite the expose on sexism in the workplace."  
  
Squealing in delight as she threw a hand up, she finds herself licking whip off her nose tip and fingers as she nods in enthusiasm.   
  
"Yup, obviously, I have a kink." Aha, so probably not the way she was supposed to mention that but it was that casual to her by now. And then she mimics Elvis' 'thank you, thank you very much' and bows as she agrees.  
  
"Nearly triple now, yup--I mean, get rid of the first two new ones since, we got them arrested but, barring that. Amazing that hasn't lowered my credibility, huh? This is why I love show business."  
  
Publicity was a show all it's own.   
  
"Yeah. I uh, even got a letter from my Dad, he wants to take me out to eat to celebrate."  
  
Amalie snorted and given that she had already been shaking the can of whipped cream, aimed it at Dani's face and pressed the nozzle for a second to spray her.   
  
"That bring back any memories too, dirty slut?" Amalie stuck her tongue out and then brought the can to her mouth and sprayed the whipped cream on her tongue. Licking excess off her lips, she winked back at Dani and then reached for her wine again. Looking at it curiously, she dipped the spoon of ice cream in the alcohol and then tasted it.  
  
"This is not dessert wine," she said idly, more to herself than anything and then looked up to hear Dani's news. Finding herself grinning again, for both Dawn and Darrell's case, Amalie clapped her hands together.  
  
"That's great news! And about time too," she picked up her spoon, "you couldn't do it all by yourself forever babe, you've got like what, triple the clients since last year?"  
  
Squealing in delight as she threw a hand up, she finds herself licking whip off her nose tip and fingers as she nods in enthusiasm.   
  
"Yup, obviously, I have a kink." Aha, so probably not the way she was supposed to mention that but it was that casual to her by now. And then she mimics Elvis' 'thank you, thank you very much' and bows as she agrees.  
  
"Nearly triple now, yup--I mean, get rid of the first two new ones since, we got them arrested but, barring that. Amazing that hasn't lowered my credibility, huh? This is why I love show business."  
  
Publicity was a show all it's own.   
  
"Yeah. I uh, even got a letter from my Dad, he wants to take me out to eat to celebrate."  
  
"There's nooo business like shooow business," Amalie sung briefly before going back to humming as she chose to take another bite of her ice cream instead. See, Amalie at least had her priorities in order, not to mention she knew when to open her mouth and when to keep it firmly closed. Granted, no one would believe she ever closed her mouth what with her being a reporter and occasional guest anchor, but it didn't hurt to surprise people.  
  
"Oh wow," Amalie blinked briefly in the surprise but quickly caught herself and nodded, "good, you deserve a celebratory dinner." It wasn't frequent that Ryan Faye got in contact with his kids. He probably didn't even know about her and Olivier...ah, that could potentially spoil things.  
  
With a little nod, Daniella finishes off her ice cream and goes to get up, stretching both hands behind her back. Olivier has already taken her out for that, but she decided not to tell her father that when he called. He did so rarely...on her request, really.   
  
"Yeah, should be nice. I haven't quite figured out what to you know...tell him, but, nice to know he's still got an eye on us somehow. More than can be said for anyone else."   
  
She deposits the bowl in the sink, then comes back, stealing the whipped cream and squirting at Amalie's face too after licking her finger tip.  
  
"Ha!"  
  
Well, of course he did, as far as Amalie knew, Ryan loved his children, enough to know that they were better off with his presence being limited. Then again, it had been the woman standing right here that had convinced her father, and a social worker and a judge, that she could take care of herself and the triplets all before Amalie had really started speaking in public. (Amalie didn't mean public speaking, she meant saying a word outside of the house).   
  
"Whenever you do figure it out, call- ah!" Her mouth stayed open in an indignant gasp as Dani took her revenge and sprayed her face with the whipped cream. Picking up the spoon, she held it up, ready to use it like a catapult.  
  
"Go ahead," she raised her eyebrow and then continued the quote, "make my day!"


	27. "Insanely Interesting Origin Story...and you still, get a shot in at Tony?"

"The mark of Gwynn -- better yet, should be called a _stain_ , is tied closely to the history of witches in general, well at least here in England...and in Yei Tir, before the fall. Actually, most of Western Europe, which is all I claim to know, alright? Okay, well, from even well before the dark ages, when the land was divided by villages, and clans, there was usually one spiritual leader, or healer. They were magic."

With rapt attention, Devin was sitting with a gun he was meant to be unloading and reloading until doing so took less than ten seconds. It's balanced across his knee and then forgotten the moment Audrey had decided to start telling him exactly what this mark -- _stain_ \-- was supposed to be. Bringing a hand up and scrubbing it against the back of his neck, he nodded to urge her on. Of course he was only talking about European history -- well, which, included _Yei Tir_ , sure?

"Now, there's a lot of theories are myths as to how vampires and werewolves came to be, involving all kinds of deities and demons but the most likely origins can be explained fairly simply. They both have their roots in dark magic, blood magic. The first werewolf was created by a curse as punishment for one man. The witch who cast the curse believed the man to be responsible for the brutal murder of his wife and daughters, though he could not prove it. The wizard offered a blood sacrifice and powerful dark magic and cursed the man so that one of the full moon he would turn and devour his own family. He did, and he was driven out of the village as a murderer.  
  
The first vampire is said to have been a woman brought back from the dead by her grieving sister. Again, blood magic was used and her sister used her own blood, transferring her life-force through it, to bring her sister back. The woman, once brought back, was not the same: her heart did not beat, her skin remained cold, and she continued to need blood to survive. She drained her sister, and every drink of magical blood may her stronger.  
  
They're maybe just stories," Audrey shrugs, "but dark and blood magic did have a hand in creating them, whether it was magic wielded by humans or magic wielded by nature, that's up for debate, except, of course, dark magic isn't -natural-, it's...twisted, for unnatural purposes.  
  
The first stain of Gwynn was also created with dark magic, that is it's common root. After decades of trying to fight against these beings with 'natural' magic and being unsuccessful, or rather not as successful as one could hope, they turned to drastic measures. Fight fire with fire.  
  
The stain infuses the witch with dark power and gives them abilities similar to that of the beings they hunted, because they were borne out of the same source. To ensure that a hunter would not turn into the monsters that they hunted, the mark has to be drawn by someone they love. Love keeps the mark in check, but it also makes it stronger because the desire to protect that loved one is greater.  
  
The stain also alerts the wearer of other supernatural beings, again, because of the similar magic that powers them. Across the country and across the continents, there came to be more than just one type of mark, but ultimately with the same purpose.  
  
Usually, the stain was given to the strongest, the most courageous, the most cunning but also the most compassionate of witches. Even them sometimes the mark didn't work...I suppose now thinking about it, there must have been something genetic. Eventually, entire familial clans were made of hunters and those magical clans, who protected the villages and its people, most of them (non-magic), moved into positions of power. Eventually, that system moved into feudalism- you probably know more about it than I do, I failed history, but it's likely how witches became royal and upper class, and those magical families without the stain of Gwynn dwindled, married into non-magical families, until the belief that people with magic without magical families must have stolen it was created.  
  
But, that black magic, wasn't known to be dark back then. It was simply magic. Eventually, around the 13th century, Alfonso the Tenth of Castile of Spain, called the wise, began the most 'accepting' rule and something like  magic was practiced by educated, scholarly, and religious men. Those men defined anything other than what they practiced as dark. Light magic was magic of God, then of course the dark magic was magic of the devil. Once the Spanish Inquisition began along with all other Inquisitions, the witch hunts began. Werewolves and vampires were also part of the hunt, more notably werewolves as the inquisition targeted people who didn't belong in the norm. Not many actual witches were caught, but those families that had evolved from hunting clans in fear of being discovered pointed finger at scapegoats, usually people of 'diluted magical origins'.  
  
After the witch hunt, and after so many centuries, eventually, werewolves and vampires appeared less and less. By then, the need for hunters diminished until the legacy, the traditions, the teachings were soon lost because it was unnecessary. They stopped being Hunters and began being nobility. Those who disagreed, those who still wanted to live by the 'hunter's code' or whatever you want to call it, ended up leaving their families and going at it solo, and they'd be more likely to pass on the tradition, which is why most modern-day hunters don't come from big magical families."  
  
Audrey pursed her lips and then added, "Also, because Tony is an idiot feeding you inaccurate information, the hunter's mark does not give you 'super-sperm'. Once it was discovered that direct blood relations of hunters were vastly more likely to become hunters, the marks were altered to ensure children between male hunters and the one who marked them. With other women, the chances were normal for a male hunter. Reversely, on a woman who chose to become a hunter, the mark would have the opposite effect. As carrying a child would have not allowed her to hunt to her full potential, the mark made a woman barren with unmarked men. Marked hunters, however, they could be impregnated by. That's something that would have been taught and handed down but that eventually just...faded."  
  
It sounds a mix between Aesop's fable, Grimm's fairytale and Biblical, which he suspects was the point. Devin had been rapt with attention for the story -- at least, until the end. Suddenly swallowing incredulous laughter, he can't help but point out, "Damn, there's this insanely interesting origin story and... you still get a shot at Tony in there? Is there a commandment that goes with this I'm unaware of that says you have to take five shots at him a day? Like a quota?"   
  
Audrey's eyes narrow in curt response.  
  
"I just want you to be well informed. Listening to him can be counter-productive to that."  
  
Leaning forward after he wipes his hand over his face he nods once as if to say 'that's an understatement' and then twice as he reconsiders. Tony might not be the most logical of men, but his friends had taught him (Nadia had shown him) -- logic wasn't exactly all it's cracked up to be.  
  
"Sure, just...maybe he was just glossing it over as 'super virility' since, you're saying it's 'Nadia' alone I'm in hyper-danger of impregnating. I mean. It makes no difference to me, since she's the only woman who matters to me by leaps and bounds -- but still, he might have wanted to spare the thought 'anyone else would be okay.'"

Audrey tried very hard, super hard, not to laugh in his face. Thankfully, her efforts succeeded. Between the instant defense of Antonio D'Grey, and the romantic declaration that there was no other woman in the world for him, keeping a straight face was a feat for Audrey. However, she had conquered higher obstacles.

And, Audrey had to remember, Devin was not merely exaggerating, he really believed that, and Nadia must too, otherwise the mark wouldn't be so strong. Throwing the word soulmate around might be overreaching but then again, compared to every single other thing they were finding possible in this world, that didn't seem so far-fetched. And yet to Audrey, it really was.

He waves all this off as he's looking at the rune on his arm, clears his throat and then adds, "The Stuarts were nobility near the end. But...I don't think it was Stuart family legacy as much as it was my great great grandmother's family -- Adelina Seydoux? The journal I have, it's her book...one of a few in my father's library."  
  
Normally locked away but you know, details, and what, Lynn was the only one who could borrow things from their parents without asking? Ha.  
  
Looking at Audrey again, he can't help but ask, "I understand well enough the branches of magic -- Yei, rather -- just, didn't quite realize this was delving deep into ...well, guess I should have, it did require my and Nadia's blood." He clears his throat. "If 'love' keeps it in check -- what, exactly, have you been doing to safeguard it?"  
  
Audrey shrugged as she sat back on the chair, passing a hand through her hair before letting fall in her lap, "I don't know about your family history, but it makes just as much sense as it would have coming from the Stuart side. I don't claim omniscient here, just that as I got older and wanted to know more about my magic, I researched a lot and consequently didn't do so well in actual school." Audrey chuckled, shrugging again.  
  
Pursing her lips as she thought of how best to answer the question, she first asked a question of her own, "Do you know what a governor is? On cars, I mean? You a car guy?" He didn't look like a car guy, but Audrey would give him the benefit of the doubt. After all, a year ago before she had dropped out of school, he was a vastly different specimen.  
  
Nodding absently, as he thinks about his own family history, Devin shrugs in the chair to try and get a bit more comfortable. The fact that the older he's gotten, the more ravenous his appetite for knowledge -- the more he's come to understand he doesn't know near any of it. Audrey had given him the best basis he'd ever heard for the history of not only where his own rune came from apart from old family diaries, but the war. This war might have had it's most recent battle in Notre Dame, Paris, France, but according to her, it predates the practice of recording history altogether. How exactly has he gone and entangled himself in that?   
  
(Well, he thinks in a voice curiously sounding like Lynn's, "You were moping around for months on end thinking no one respected you; be careful what you _wiiiiish_ for...")  
  
Except, he wants to argue with her mentally, he hadn't ever asked for a family legacy larger than his father in office. Arguing with a mental Lynn was likely to be even more tiring than doing so with the real one.   
  
So instead he looks up at Audrey, confused and sheepish before admitting, "No. I mean, Governor of a county or region, that I could tell you no problem," he snaps the fingers on his marked hand and smirks.  
  
"But cars? Not so much. Actually, where I might get history pretty well, I kind of failed electricity and similar sciences."   
  
Audrey nodded, not holding it against him given that he accurately brought up the fact he could go on, probably indefinitely, on the other kind of governors and how the position was born and what it entails and how much power they have. Their skills differed, as she didn't even remember right now who the current governor of- wait, there were no governors in the UK.  
  
"It's pretty simple," she started, "governors are speed-limiters. They regulate the speed of the car engine, establishes a top speed that you can't surpass. Older cars are mechanical or hydraulic, being usually located on the in-line pumps, but now most governors are part of the car's ECM, which is entirely computerized-," she paused, reminding herself to get back on topic.  
  
Audrey smiled, "Anyways, once you get towards a certain speed, it shuts down the injector pulses, keeping fuel from getting to the engine. So, until I can find a better way, that's pretty much what I'm doing with your magic. I cut off the power of Gwynn's mark to about 70% of its capacity."  
  
"70%?" The number cuts through his idle meandering thoughts about the metaphor of using 'governor' for such a task with cars. It even cuts his joke off -- saying it was like a 'switch to kill it', as that seems as insensitive as -- well, as Tony and Audrey were like to be about the other. One of these days he'd get them to tell him why they loathe each other so.  
  
Clearing his throat as he coughs out again, "I nearly shot Nadia with only 30% of this thing 'on' for want of better phrasing?"   
  
Though he isn't at all sure what it was that makes her able to 'quantify' his skill (he's sure, for example, he's still monstrously hungrier, stronger, faster, and can see better than he had been before the mark -- was she saying all of these enhancements were paltry to what he will be capable of?). Holy--  
  
"That's...," he coughs again, eyes wide and for the first moment since she began speaking, not at all sure he wants to believe any of this. "A lot. Though I definitely understand now why Tony is still so insistent I'm no match -- Claude was never inhibited against him at fifteen, after all."   
  
Though, Claude had control (at least, that's what it seemed to Devin). Rubbing over his face again, he sighs out, "All I want, is to keep those I care about safe -- well, and myself. How did the D'Greys problems become mine?"  
  
There's a beat. Then the corner of his lip turns up in recognition as he admits, "You probably know something about that."   
  
"Yeah, about," Audrey nodded, "I'm pretty good at math, I manage the budget at home, the books at the bar, so once I started thinking about what I could do to help you I thought of the governors and I know that engines use related rates, rates of change, so I did some research in differential calculus."  
  
Audrey then pulled the sleeve of her sweater up to above her elbow and then passed her hand over her forearm to reveal the formula she had written on her skin, "It's my magic that powers the 'governor' if you will, that's why when I'm closer it works better. So when you were at Nadia's it was probably 50% but that is definitely a guess." And the only reason her magic could restrain his, it was because it was more powerful. Saying that aloud however was redundant.  
  
Audrey pulled the sleeve back down and then nodded, "Once you practice you'll be able to control the intensity of your abilities." Though that was something to ask Claude and, she supposed, Antonio.  
  
Scoffing, Audrey crossed her arms in front of her chest and nodded, "A little something, yeah." Her understatement caused a small smirk to appear on her face. They weren't exactly her problems, it was more problems by indirect association. And oh yeah, she was dragged into the middle of this when they made Emily a casualty of a war she was no part of.  
  
Differential calculus ... Devin gives a low, impressed whistle. It was easy to forget Audrey had a few years on him when he felt the events of Notre Dame had made him so prematurely old, at least until she mentioned branches of study he hadn't found in any class yet. Not, to say, he'd never run across the term in the more advanced experimental potions of his but --  
  
Devin cuts off the train of thought the moment she mentions Nadia. Her name has always had that effect.   
  
Curiously examining where she wrote on her own skin still, Devin nods, then says off-hand, "Does that...go away, like the mark does on me? Grow around me and then..."   
  
Oh, that was a loaded innuendo if he'd ever heard one - thank the heavens that Tony had not been here to hear it (no matter how insensitive such a remark was). Despite all his groaning and insistence that if the bloke didn't stop it he'd file for sexual harassment, frankly, he was a little proud to have his respect too. It was a guy thing, he'd told Lynn and Hols when pressed.   
  
Not surprised that Audrey stiffens (she often did around the name 'D'Grey', but then, most did), Devin doesn't move. He just examines her expression mildly and then comments, still hoping it's off-hand.  
  
"What made you jump in? I mea--you didn't know me, at least until you called Rory..."  
  
"No, it doesn't work like your mark, it's static and not permanent. It just helps me concentrate the magic more accurately, so I don't have to think in the equation-- does that make sense?" She was trying to explain as best as she could but most yei wouldn't even think of applying math to a spell. Then again, it wasn't technically a spell. See why it could be difficult?  
  
"Frankly? The first thing I thought when I saw that mark in that photo of you was 'what kind of dumbass'," she smirked, mostly teasing, "'is stupid enough to draw that antiquated mark on himself?'"  
  
And at that time she still hadn't known about Emily. If anything, knowing what happened to her would have kept her away. That was her first intention, when she had told Tony to stay away from her and her family when she had realized she couldn't go through with getting her own personal brand of justice for her cousin.  
  
"I was curious. I don't often have a chance to really explore my power," not without adverse effects, she meant, "It also helped you being easy on the eyes."  
  
The last made him snort and forget momentarily asking her when she had drawn the mark on herself, too busy pointing out, "Happy to oblige that at least."   
  
And he winks, but truthfully as Devin rearranges in the chair again he thinks: that's what she thought he wants to hear. Apart from the tease and the fact she's not wrong (it lifts a smile on his face), he lets slide the obvious manipulation in mentioning it. She was easy on the eyes too and, much more importantly, she seemed to be counting on his inbred male arrogance to fore-stall pushing any further on the subject.   
  
It was similar to why Tony did it, he thinks. Similar, but not identical. For one thing actually Tony was more graphic -- especially, apparently, to Nadia. For another, Devin strangely felt as though Tony viscerally related to his dilemma on some instinctual level, like he was saying he honestly 'felt for him' and Devin was never one to discount someone admitting they cared. He'd learned that the hard way too.   
  
Still with an easy smile he returns, "And you're no lout yourself," leaning over to elbow her side again before resettling on the couch. His foot bridges over his knee, jerking up and down as he tries to remember how to be at ease. That was something else the mark seemed to have started doing to him: he was restless. Or perhaps that was the seventy percent jostling at him to try and escape the prison locks Audrey put on it.  
  
"I appreciate it, Audrey." He says instead, patting at his thigh and then getting up, "And...I'm gonna go for a run, before I leap out of my skin. You sticking around?"   
  
Relieved when he didn't fish for more of an answer, especially because she didn't know how to reply to the question either, Audrey shared a genuine smile with Devin the closest thing to gratitude she would admit to right then.  
  
Chuckling as he prodded her with his elbow, she mouthed 'lout', amused by the choice of vocabulary. It wasn't that it was particularly impressive, it was a simple enough word, Audrey just would never had heard it from anyone in her neighborhood.  
  
"As much as I enjoy watching you work out," she stood up as well, "I should get going. Promised Nora she wouldn't have to eat spaghetti-o's again." So, Macaroni helper it was.


	28. Ever Have Only One Entendre?

From here, you could hardly tell. Leaning with his hands folded across his suit jacket, knee bracing him on the wall, Olivier's eyes trail over the prone blonde resting on one of his sofas. Then they fall to the pillow she held. A smile tugs on his lips. Even a household fully fledged with Theresa at the head hadn't escaped the influence of three male owners in a hundred years -- but give board to Stefanie Ricard seven weeks, and suddenly they were drowning in embroidered throw pillows.  
  
This was the 'feminine touch', right? Embroidered blankets like tapestries were out too (as if she needs them any more) and more photographs had appeared on mantles (he supposes that's one thing to do to kill the boredom when she's up all night: snoop through old albums). Flowers too -- although the last isn't as new as the rest. Olivier D'Grey had always liked fresh flowers in their crystal vases. It was the Italian in him: he liked greenery, open windows, and yes even love songs on their grand piano.  Almost as much as he loves the scent of pizelles or fresh wood oven baked dough (but honestly, nothing could beat that scent to him).  
  
Of course, he knew why she had that pillow against her chest. As Stef hugs it tight, fast asleep, she's perfectly still. The blanket around her with it obscures that her chest wasn't moving. From here, she looks as human as anyone, asleep and innocent. Was there a more inaccurate term for Stefanie now? The thought makes him laugh, stepping forward as he shakes his head to himself.  
  
(Not that he's human either. At least he didn't have to deal with the hangover.)  
  
Though he says "Stefanie?", he knows it isn't that which rises her head. Even asleep she can hear his heartbeat. Which was why, when her eye opens he sees it suffused with crimson, far beyond the normal 'blood-shot' tired look. Ah. Holding a finger tip up, he remarks calmly, "There is a man, in the parlor I take breakfast in. Calls himself Christoph. Says he's yours."  
  
The reminder seems to hit her all at once as she's given a new image for satisfaction beyond leaping onto Olivier. Distracted, she runs tongue over parted pink lips, and doesn't hear his finger snap. Lifting her head and body in one smooth movement, she's startled when the blanket ties her back down. Spinning back into the couch with a cat's grace, Stefanie hisses before her eyes land on his fingers-now opening to a hand of friendship, open palm offered to her. Ah. Sure, she could rip the blanket in an instant, but she's too smart at first to do more than snap, "D'Grey, I'm hungry.'  
  
"Oh, that I know," Olivier finds himself chuckling with the candid moment as he slips his hand back in his pocket and sits on the coffee table across from her. Perched on the edge to avoid the flower vase, he momentarily admires the fresh lavender scent, wafting it towards him with the other hand. Let no one say vampirism had void Stefanie of good taste.  
  
"Always. You're always hungry, Stef -- or should I say you'll never not be hungry?"  
  
He spun back to her as he said that, knowing perfectly well she'd catch the reference to Tony's love of double negatives. Oh look, there it was! Both her eyes fix red on him, narrow and irritated.  
  
"You don't know --," she starts, and Olivier can tell she's trying to be nice. She's trying to tell him to back off and let her eat before she attacked him; it's cute, the way her lips pout and purse. If Tony was right, she'd be flipping her hair at him soon.  
  
"Sure I do." Olivier says, clapping his hands together and then bracing elbows to bridge across his knees. Voice steady as he's trying to be kind still, he continues with casual regard, "Stef, a vampire raised me. Raised by one, tutored under another, slept with another."  
  
There's a pause, as he throws out with eyes flicking to look at the silver frames now apparantly on his mantle.  
  
"Repeatedly."  
  
Stefanie scoffs.  
  
Looking back, Olivier continues after licking his own upper lip. "Not to mention worked with a fair few and am a blood addict myself, or well, that's one way to put it -- in any case, yes Stef, I do know. You're always craving, always going to be too."  
  
"I meant." Her teeth were gritted, like she's barely keeping fangs back. Olivier isn't sure why she's bothered. As he just demonstrated, he's more than familiar with them. "That I'm--"  
  
"A danger?"  
  
It's disarming, how easily Olivier smiles as he says that. Stefanie bites down. Blue creeps back into her eyes, like ice cooling over magma.  
  
"You're hungry," Olivier says, plain as he shakes his head at her concern. "You aren't leaping on me, you aren't dessicating -- in fact, your cheeks are positively rosy." Well, no they aren't, but he knew the difference between dangerously starving and ordinary cravings. In human terms, Stef was 'peckish.'  
  
And grumpy, clearly.  
  
"Then why," she rips free with a sigh, "did you tell me Christoph is here, if you weren't going to let me eat?"  
  
Olivier smirks.  
  
"To point out to you since you aren't zipping out of the room to feed, you aren't dying of thirst. To test your restraint and resolve. And so you know you do have a warm meal ready and willing when we're done talking. Satisfied?"  
  
Stefanie pauses, letting the pink and green fleece pool back around her knees as she sits back. Her finger plucks the gold cross around her neck. She searches his gaze before looking at the floor, apparently processing his words. Olivier gives her the time, looking back at the frames. They were black and white images of Roma; it's attractive, her spur of museum style 50s decorating. He wonders who took the photographs.  
  
"Just a single question then," Stefanie posits, chipper as she draws him back to the conversation. He nods. "Do you ever do anything that doesn't have nine motives behind it, D'Grey?"  
  
Olivier blinks at her as he let's out a 'huh!', as if this idea is brand new information never before occurred to him, be it in jest, mockery, seriousness, or a therapist's concern. Then he cocks his head again, and speaks.  
  
"No."  
  
Now it's Stefanie's turn to blink. Nails pluck her necklace again, pinch the cross between forefinger and thumb as she let's out a sigh of 'right...' before shaking it off, bemused against her will.  
  
"What do you need to ask me then?"  
  
"I need to ask you," and suddenly, Olivier appears so serious that shivers track up her spine, "about the kind of man Ansel Dorat is."  
   
Taken aback, Stefanie shrinks into the couch and straightens up in one smooth move. Then she cocks her head. Her hair flips over her shoulder. (Olivier's gaze darts to it, and the corner of his lips perk up). As she points a manicured nail up, she says brightly, "Hold on. Did yo--I called Christoph last night. Or, well, two am, did you keep him out?!'  
  
"Subtle, change of subject really," Olivier doesn't even wait to blink as he adds a chuckle under his breath with it. Her ignoring the remark was expected -- although her choice of subject change was interesting enough that he allowed it for a moment. Tilting his head to acknowledge with his smirk, "But as it happens--",  
  
"--for heavens sakes, D'Grey--"  
  
" I was in uh, less than fit state to recieve company last night." Olivier finished as if uninterrupted. Stefanie ignored that very leading hint too (which he thinks is probably for the best). As she narrows her gaze at him, the blanket shuffles around her feet.  
  
Yet her voice remains chipper as she says, "Is keeping me hungry a fit state to be in?"  
  
Olivier throws his hand up as if to sign his point in a finger jab. "As I said! I wasn't making particularly smart decisions. And as Christoph works for me, it was--"  
  
"Beg pardon?"  
  
"--able to simply, rework his schedule, give him the night off--"  
  
"Christoph works for you?"  
  
(Stefanie really couldn't help herself from interrupting, could she?)  
  
 Listening only after the fact, after a glance to her eyes to double check they were still blue as he says, "Why do you sound surprised, you had to know when you--" , he tilts his head as he seems to understand abruptly, suddenly certain, "You didn't do anything. Marcus did."  
  
Stefanie could interrupt even herself, he thinks with amusement as she takes time off her own revelation to shoot him a glare. Slipping his hands back together, tying fingers like a knot as he leans forward, Olivier continues. There's a far off look on his face as he puts it together, like he's hunting down stray dogs in another realm at the same time.  
  
"Marcus called for him..." Tongue flicks at his lips as he concludes (willfully ignoring the glare), "So, when I helped you feed at the church ... that wasn't the first time you fed live," his head tilts further forward, "I did wonder how, when you walked through the door, you didn't immediately -- "  
  
"Jump you?" Stefanie's remark was brighter than the sun was this early in the morning, but equally as cold.  
  
"Jump Tony, actually," he waves off her little scowl, "but it's because you already fed. With Marcus."  
  
Olivier points at her with that addition, 'with Marcus', like a father scolding a child with no need to wait to be proven right. It's a usual look on his face. Why would he need proof before action when he creates the proof himself? It's an occupational hazard of his with newspapers and social media taking the place of pigs; when you see how the sausage is made, you never want to swallow it again.  
   
"Your point?"  
  
Stefanie sighs, not bothering to tell him otherwise when he was aggravatingly right.  
"Only that you told my brother and I that you left Marcus, because he had no regard for human life."  
  
"Which is more or less true," Stefanie insists with a little shrug. Her hand is back to twirling strands of her hair, the blanket shifting on her lap. He mirrors her smirk without hesitation.  
  
"Oh, tell me Stef, do you ever say anything without a double meaning?"  
  
Her laugh still bright, it's warmer this time as crinkles appear around her eyes, filling them with genuine amusement at being caught in his own game. Not many people could say the same of a conversation with Olivier D'Grey, after all. Settling herself deeper into the couch, she shakes her head to say, "Not since I was eleven or so."  
  
Weren't they a pair?  
  
"Still," Olivier claps his hands after a moment's reflection, "You've camped out on my couch and been a guest in my home after demanding entry a month and a half, I think it's time you tell me the 'more true' section of that."  
  
Lifting her chin, her nail digs in the pinch between throat and jaw bone.  
  
"Oh is it time?"  
  
"Yes," Olivier didn't hesitate. "Clearly, you decided to come to us irregardless of his input or personality. If you fed with him, he must have stopped you from killing the man now in my breakfast room. He gave you his card, so it couldn't have been unpaid for or incredibly unpleasant. Which means you had another reason for seeking us out."  
  
"And you're concerned I, what?"  
  
"Not concerned." His response was plain, even country-esque considering he forwent pronouns (unusual for him), "Well, unless you went and told Marcus you'd provide him information on my brother and I if he agreed to turn you."  
  
Stefanie blinks.  
  
Olivier only takes one moment to look at her, have the understanding that was near enough exactly what she'd said, start rubbing his eyes, groaning her name and laughing under his breath all at once. That only makes her blink again. Now she's the one concerned, she thinks, bemused--concerned with what to do if Olivier D'Grey goes into conniptions on ostensibly her watch. Tony would not be pleased if she watched him have seizures, anyway.  
  
"Stefanie," he begins but cuts off as he laughs and shakes his head again.  
  
"I didn't say I would spy," she starts off defensively immediately, "I just--I listed my connections, which include you and Tony, yes, but also--"  
  
"Your brother." Olivier nods, shaking his head with some disbelief and rubbing a few tears out of his eyes with his incredulous laughter. "And let's see. Eliza and Irene. Nadia, Daniella..."  
  
She's not sure why he recites now; it's clear they both already know what happened. But then - ah! D'Grey never misses a cue.  
  
"And, as it happens--"  
  
"Ansel." Stefanie says. "Who you were just about to pump me for information about, D'Grey."  
  
However triumphant her tone, it goes ignored as D'Grey is muttering to him self-defense with snide chuckles and head shakes in disbelief. Stefanie thinks she catches 'God, Dad, I have gone soft-', but blinks, and then thinks she must have imagined it as he accuses her.  
  
"There's a difference, Stef." His tone is biting, "I gave you a house, a place to sleep, got you a tattoo to let you go in the sun, even people to eat." He claps his hands together, but his gaze is anything but casual, "Didn't let you kill anyone, even at the cost of my sanity as you just up and leave without telling me to stalk twenty year olds who vaguely resemble my brother. My asking, about your ex--"  
  
"Harper Brackner gave me that tattoo." Apparently, mentioning the quasi-Antonios she'd been so partial to last week was her final straw. Olivier scoffs, waving that off.  
  
"Yes, he did!" Olivier sits up, remarking blase, "After I accepted personal responsibility for your actions as a vampire."  
  
Though Olivier could see she was taken aback by that knowledge as much as displeased, he couldn't deny being impressed that she didn't comment her surprise this time. In fact, she seemed to take it in stride that he'd had more of a hand in events than known previously.Good! She was learning. Parisians knew it instinctively a century in now: D'Grey had a hand in everything.  
  
He stands, but she just settled deeper into the couch and mutters, mocking, "Poor, burdened, D'Grey. Responsibility really isn't your area of expertise."  
  
"Guilt and regret aren't." The words were brisk, but his steps towards the mantle are languid. "Responsibility?"  
  
His laugh chills her again. Or hey! Maybe that's her crippling hunger. Not like he's just left her starving here or anything.  
  
"All too familiar." His musing was like a violin for a moment, incredulously wound tight and vibrating. Back to her, she trails a nail over her exposed throat as she sizes him up mentally. She could take him, she thinks, but she wouldn't bet on it yet.  
  
"I've helped you, Stef." Olivier says when he  finally looks back at her. What had he been saying about guilt? She might feel guilty now for the hurt implied she caused him, but couldn't be bothered when he said it as the reason she should spill her guts about her lover/friend/whatever Ansel is. Nope, not buying it.  
  
"Marcus helped me too." She said, defiant. Her gaze lifts off the floor back to hold his. Olivier regards her in disbelief for a long few moments, or rather, mostly in disbelief. Of all things he couldn't understand about her however, it appears this one thing some dark part of him (maybe the vampire half?) seems to implicitly understand after all.  
  
He exhales with another soft head shake, "Right, course he did. By turning you into a vampire, I forgot how much that helped you. He killed you, but--"  
  
"I killed me, Olivier."  
  
There's a moment of silence, for them both, like they were mutually reflecting on a huge secret even though she was the culprit and he really, truly should have guessed.  
  
"If you want the truth," she says, and stands herself now, the blanket falling away to leave her in a beige camisole and forest-green leggings, "after blood sharing, I downed a poison in my white wine. I killed me, and by the way?"  
  
She stops walking, stands in front of him.  
  
"I'm not dead."  
  
It was tired, the way she exhales that, like she doesn't know anymore if she even believes it but she desperately needs it to be true, so it just is. And of the two of them brothers, Olivier thinks ruefully, she's come to the right one to believe that finally. He suspects Tony's the reason for her reluctance, for her sounding like a broken record void even of static as she tells him something for the first time.Tony wasn't known for his tolerance of vampires, more like his deep and abiding moral opposition to their very existence--and since Stefanie became one? His brother hadn't changed his mind at all on what they were: soulless, dead, arrogant monsters with no regard for humanity. Instead, he dug in to the basic belief, sniped and snapped, convinced himself Stefanie was the singular exception to every rule of his. Well, apart from brief and fleeting moments when Chantel happened to get a rise from him (haha, a rise, get it?). Only Stefanie could only be an exception as long as Tony himself could be her personal Lord and savior because hey after all, he'd already damned himself, might as well use that opportunity to save her, right!?  
  
His goddamn brother.  
  
"No," Folding his arms over his chest, Olivier nods as he speaks, licking his upper lip. "You're not dead. You've changed. The human you is as dead and gone as the twelve year old version of me, but no Stef, I don't think you're dead."  
  
A quick glance to her jaw tells him she stabilized a tremble by cutting teeth into her tongue before she smiles, satisfied. At least, she was satisfied until he slapped his thigh and spoke again, blunt.  
  
"You need to choose a side."  
  
"Excuse me?"  
  
He takes a step closer to her as he explains, as always with the air as if stating something they both already know only, she has no idea what he's referring to.  
  
"You're a vampire, Stefanie. Believe it or not, that means a hell of a lot more than the simple shift in dietary requirements."  
  
"Simple shift." Her sarcasm didn't go amiss from him as he steps closer, "Just a simple little shift from cinnamon toaster strudel to sucking down AB positive from a human neck, yeah."  
  
Olivier only smirks, eyebrows clear as they tell her 'you're the one who asked for it'--and goddammit, no, she was not beginning to understand D'Grey eyebrow communication!  
  
"That's just the most basic." He shrugs, "And by the way, it isn't limited to vampires."  
  
Her nose wrinkles up and he forestalls her resorting to sniping at him that he could never understand ever like a teenager did. Hey, she flipped her hair at him again too!  
  
With another step, "You're stronger, faster, meaner, sexier--"  
  
"Aww, I'm touched."  
  
"And constantly thirsty-yes, yes, yes, immortal, but more than all of that comes the fact that your position in society has drastically, and I mean drastically, shifted."  
  
"So I'm going to have to choose a side?" Stefanie's echo is high in her disbelief. "In what war, exactly?! You vs. Ansel? You vs. Marcus?"  
  
Then she mouths a curse and throws her hand away after balling up her fist, like she wrote her words on paper to crumple them up and throw them away.  
  
Olivier only nods.  
  
"And in Ansel versus your brother, and Ansel versus my brother, and me versus the Aveniers--"  
  
"And vampires versus werewolves versus hunters you mean?"  
  
"Si."  
  
"There are no sides!" Stefanie clearly holds to the childish belief that making herself louder would make him agree with her.  
  
"Here in Paris? There is no reason, if I have my way and--," he laughs under his breath as he rests a hand over his heart, "let's face it, I do," (he ignores her eye roll), "that you can't cling to humanity in every way possible. You don't need to kill to survive, as you know. You can vote, you can walk in the sun, you can drive a car and hang out at a pub, here I'll sum up! You have the right to exist which, oh shocker, isn't guaranteed in other countries. Hunters are not extinct in Paris, just a little more docile in agreement with the assurance of vampire civility, but all over the world they have strong holds.  
  
And werewolves, well, Hans and I had them under control, just like my father did before us, but," he whistles, "see how we come full circle to my initial question on what kind of man Ansel is, Stefanie?"  
  
Throwing her hands up and vibrating on her bare feet, balancing on her toes, she snaps back at him.  
  
"Fine! You made your point D'Grey, I choose Team Stefanie, which by the way, you missed one--"  
  
"My girlfriend?" He puts it bluntly, unimpressed. But he doesn't look her in the eye as he does, and Stefanie turns back, stepping closer to him too.  
  
"Yeh!," it takes him a little more aback by the sudden Austrian spin on her agreement than her crimson eyes had in retrospect, "or do you honestly think that Daniella Faye is going to let you continue to put her in a corner while you unilaterally run drugs and guns into the country?"  
  
Olivier arches his hand at her and it's all it takes to make her stop, swallow, take a small step back. It occurs to her later that in that moment he'd known there was more to why she said it than the fact she could hear their arguments, but he could no longer be deterred from his mission.  
  
"Daniella didn't put Tony in jail."  
  
 With an incredulous scoff and wide eyes, it's Stefanie's turn to shake in disbelief and groan under her breath, "My God! You two! You dodge this most central question to your relationship every single day--you know, sometimes I think I'm more scared of the two of you than of anyone!"  
  
Olivier takes a moment to consider this, chuckle, and nod (all in apparent agreement and pride, like Stefanie had just given him the right answer and he'll stick a gold star on his forehead). But he stays firm.  
  
"Daniella didn't put my brother in jail, Stefanie. Ansel did."  
  
Her exasperated 'what?!' never has time to strike the air as she can't pretend not to believe it long enough even to gather the breath required. Ansel was a lot of things, but restrained had never been one of them. The challenge of reclaiming his pack-brothers and sisters from Hans should have been enough, she'd told herself. Where would he possibly get evidence on the D'Grey's when he only just took power?, she'd thought.  
  
But the trouble was, the questions 'why would he go against the organization?' and 'why would he want Tony locked up?' were very easy to answer for her. Ironically, aha, they both have a lot to do with pretty blondes.  
  
Exhaling 'ohh Ansel...' in a long slow breath, Stef lands with a thump and a laugh back on the arm of his couch. Her nails dig into her forehead, peel over shut eyes with a laugh. Olivier just waits.  
  
"You want to know what kind of man Ansel Dorat is, D'Grey?" She asks him with low, fervent pride, eyes on his shoes, toes wiggling in the carpet. "He's just. He's as just...as you are."  
  
She spits it, and Olivier's eyes narrow, knowing she intended on that to wound.  
  
After rubbing over her lips and muttering too soft and quick for human ears so Olivier only catches-- "Tony-God-kill him--", Stefanie clears her throat and meets his gaze like she'd look at him if her life depended on it.  
  
"You're asking me, because you want to make some kind of deal with him?"  
  
"I want to reach down his throat and shove his heart, liver, and spleen into his lungs and watch, as he chokes on them." Olivier said through a smile, thoroughly conversational. Every mannerism screams at her that he might have just told her he was going to his grandmother's house for tea.  
  
She shivers, knowing he was telling the truth.  
  
"However," he tilts his head at her, lips curling, "something tells me that once my brother finished high-fiving me, that he'd never forgive me."  
  
Uneasy, Stefanie tries to scoff and mutters, "Only because you didn't let him do it."  
  
"Not at all." Olivier's smile widens, "Because, dear Stef, I'd have forever ruined Tony's chance -- with you."  
  
Stefanie blinks, and looks away so she doesn't have to see him point at her.  
  
"And then there's my girlfriend, her best friend, and a half dozen other reasons I'd prefer not to have to commit another murder so all things considered, Stef! Why yes, I would like to know the man I'm dealing with."  
  
Clearing her throat, she nods as it seems only to blister in reminder of that ever present thirst. Rubbing over it, she resumes speaking without lifting her gaze from the sun in the window.  
  
"Ansel lost someone very important to him, Olivier, because of his own choice to become a wolf. He doesn't blame Hans, don't worry, because see...Hans saved his life. No, Ansel, he...," she speaks quietly, eyebrows aflutter, "he knows it was his fault."  
  
"Who was this?" It's impressive, Stefanie thinks, how calm Olivier asks to pry into a personal life. Her smile is slight.  
  
"What's this? You need my help to know that? Why not just look up his records, O Mighty and Powerful D'Grey?'"  
  
"King Olivier," Olivier retorts with the same easy if slight smile, "and his records weren't sealed, Stef, they were destroyed."  
  
He would have already looked.  
  
"Her name was Colette. His girlfriend...he lost control, tried to protect her, wound up, well...killing her."  
  
"Let me guess," Olivier's gaze floats to her hair, head tilting at her. He snorts, "She was blonde."  
  
Stefanie decides it was in everyone's very best interest to ignore this.  
  
"He's spent every moment since then trying to control his own life, as best he can. Ansel's learned very well from his examples D'Grey. He has an inferiority complex with his older brother. He's misguided about how to actually help someone, but he...he does want to. He leaves before he hurts someone he cares about because he thinks that's the best way to protect them. He and Gabe..."  
  
"That's the older brother?"  
  
"I thought you said his records were destroyed?"  
  
"Yours haven't been." Olivier says, equally conversationally as his earlier death threat. Oh, fantastic! Yes, she supposes it would be somewhere in there since Gabe had given her help on her first apartment here but.. bloody hell, why ask if he knows? He sits on the table across from her again. Enduring the hit her glare provides, he gestures at her to continue.  
  
"Yes, Gabe is his older brother, and his Dad's preferred son." She ignores his 'ahuh', too, a bit relieved his eyes flick off of looking at her with that heavy, ponderous expression. "So Ansel has been looking his whole life for belonging with a family, and he has that now. I think he'd be reasonably receptive to a deal that leaves Paris free of war..."  
  
She pauses, humming along the edge of reluctance, then thinks of Tony in a jail cell and finally says quietly, "But not to a deal working with you, no."  
  
Olivier arches an eyebrow as if to say he expected that, it was a pity, sarcastically jibe 'a real shame!' and he didn't really need to ask all at once. It occurs to her, must be difficult making observations by habit without wanting to really know. Sherlock Holmes never got a day off either. He was right, he did know a lot of responsibility.  
  
"He does seem to take personal issue with my name, true. And, wolves and vampires rarely get along, and I'm close enough to the latter," Olivier decides to guess. She looks momentarily pained before sitting up further to shake it off and disagree.  
  
"I can talk to him." She swears, hard. "I will, talk to him, I have to try--I've gotten through to him before."  
  
Olivier only takes one look at her mouth, but it's enough to let Stefanie know he highly doubts she'll help matters as a vampire now. Right, because she's useless? Fuck that.  
  
"Looking at my fangs? Fine you're right, he won't rest until vam--until we," she bites her lip, "are out of Paris, he told me as much when he found out about me. He views it as his city, he means to save it, and he has a righteous cause with his political friend on the right side of the law--"  
  
"Darrell Avenier," Olivier comments mildly as he slides hands back on his thighs to push himself back to standing, "is not the only Avenier helping him, actually."  
  
"Amalie?" Stefanie asks confused. With one look ascertaining she didn't know about the article yet (thus explaining the lack of Amalie's corpse on the breakfast table, he supposes), Olivier brushes this off with a snort. "His city?"  
  
"And that makes him different from you how, exactly?!" Stefanie snapped, keenly aware she's being kept in the dark again.  
  
"Wrong brother."  
  
"Pardon?"  
  
"He hates vampires, has poor impulse control and a moral center which makes him alternatively hypocritical due to his unusual supernatural abilities -- and aggravatingly self-righteous when he's right."  
  
Beginning to see where Olivier was going, Stefanie groans, uncurling her spine one vertebrae at a time as she lifts, slow to halt his recitation.  
  
"He has issues with sticking around, with an older brother and with a father who didn't love him the way he should have, hates the name D'Grey and all it stands for --"  
  
Stefanie's eyes are red now, cat-like slits, but she looks at the floor as he asks, "Does he incessently quote Game of Thrones?"  
  
"He loves Mozart," her response was prim and eyes back on him with strict determination, "and Comedia de L'Arte."  
  
"Well, thank heavens for that," Olivier is back to grinning down at her, "otherwise I was going to say --"  
  
"I got it." She grumbles, sharp and stands back up, suddenly back in front of him, her nail pushing into his chest. The proximity to his throat hits her at once; the warm scent rolling over her and as she quivers, she realizes she can't ignore her hunger any longer.  
  
"May I have breakfast now? Need my strength before I slaughter him for putting Tony in prison, see."  
  
And also, she adds mentally and a little physically if you count her index finger tracing the pulsating vein on Olivier's throat, because you smell delicious.  
  
Olivier doesn't even blink.  
  
"One more question. Then slaughter away."  
  
Stefanie sighs, but he takes that as agreement. Or maybe he just recognizes her sigh was an excuse to breathe in and the steady nick of her nail against his vein as the signs they were he had to hurry up.  
  
"Do you love him?"  
  
Bewildered by the question, Stefanie's eyes suffuse ice blue once more and her hand falls to her own throat, then chest, then side. As she holds his gaze -- searching, pleading -- any protests she had die on her lips. Instead, with a small smile appearing on the corner, she asks knowingly,  
  
"And you're just asking as a professional rival, are you?"  
  
Sure, and his concern for his brother's love life was none of his business and he had no interest in it because Olivier D'Grey, meddling?! How dare you!  
  
"It's common courtesy in my business to give notification in the post of the loss of loved one." Olivier quips, bright. After appreciating his own joke while she huffs and glares sufficiently, he sighs too and reminds her, "Do I ever have just the one entendre, Stefanie?"  
  
A faraway look in her eye as she takes a long moment to consider this, nod him away with understanding, chews on her lip to forestall tears and smiles at the same time -- when she finally answers, it's soft.  
  
"As a human, I did." She smiles, but when she meets his eyes again to laugh, she seems just as likely to sob as she adds, "I loved him. Almost as much as I hated him." Olivier just nods, getting that (oh Lord does he get that).  
  
(Or maybe he doesn't, not really. Maybe he wishes he could.)  
  
"Now..." She falters, and finally just shakes her head, muttering, "now it doesn't matter, does it, D'Grey? I'm going to outlive them both. But yes, I would appreciate a post card if you kill him."  
  
Olivier laughs (like he hadn't been serious), "Duly noted."  
  
Stefanie slips back, patting shaky hands off on her leggings before asking, bright as ever, "You going to join me for breakfast?"  
  
Ice blue eyes sparkle at him. "Going to pay yourself?"  
  
After sharing another laugh, Olivier slips back too and adjusts his top shirt in the windows reflection.  
  
"No," he offers after a lengthy look to deem himself sufficiently inappropriate (and to tease her making her wait further), "No, I have my own breakfast at a caf��...with my girlfriend."  
  
Stefanie stalls, hand on the door to the hall and looks back at him to study the rueful, bemused and determined expression on his lips. Ahuh, she thinks, nails drumming on the wood frame before she speaks with a smirk.  
  
"I'll alert the Red Cross to be on standby."


	29. "You know what the first thing I ever taught my brother was?"

The sip of tea she took was measured, as if in honorium of her being too clever by half, amusing him. Earl-grey at half past seven, naturally, as you could take the girl out of England but never the English blue blood out of the girl. Daniella does have that blood in spades (he licks his lips); boasting if not verbally than in mannerisms of her impressive ancestors. He'd made inquiries recently after the Fayes and has to admit those ancestors would have no reason for complaint in Daniella. They had started a war for all the right reasons and a century later people forgot it had ever happened. The baldness of the lie was only matched by the families complete control over the history books. 

She licks her lips as she sets the cup down and says without turning around, "Are you going to stand there all morning?"

The corner of his lips lifts. How did she even know he could hear her? She was the one railing against him 'indulging' in anything apart from her -- and though the space would make even three people a crowd, they were hardly alone. At this time, the breakfast cafe was full of the faithful, those denizens of Parisian flaniere as a raison d'atrie. They spend their weekends wandering parks and cafes where they're bound to know the owners' family foibles. This one has two bee-hives in the attic, carefully tended to offer their customers fresh honey. 

(D'Grey was nothing if not an observer.) 

Picking his elbow off the counter and thanking Elle for saving him the fresh biscuits, Olivier adjusts his lapels with a casual offhand, then takes the small plate and mug over to her. Roman to the last, he couldn't start the morning without coffee. That would be like wearing German shoes to Church: blasphemous. 

"Mi dispacie, questa vista bellissima," he offers as one hand slides the tiny plate to her and the other waves over her visage. It's not flattery. Hair loose in black cascades over shoulders capped tight in a baby-doll tee, she wore flare dark-wash jeans and boots up to her knees -- a smile that said she knew everything he envisioned doing to her damn well. He was a second from whistling, if only to widen her smirk.

 

Oh, but her mouth opens anyway to pop a biscuit and Olivier sits down doing the best he can to avoid the impression of haste. Daniella giggles, then pats her mouth with her napkin. It's only then he sees the paper under her book, open to a very specific photo and article. Throat tightening, he smiles -- almost, almost proud she was goading him so. If it wasn't his brother... 

(Oh, like he's never used someone's brother against them.)

"No blame from me, D'Grey," Daniella says with a little wink, and he loves how she says that without apology. "My own view has improved dramatically."

"Ah well, I'll drink to that." He jokes, quick and easy as he toasts her back with his cappuccino. After mutual sips, he looks down, takes the paper and lifts it up by the fold to view the picture dead-on. Daniella says nothing, only sips her tea and surveys him. Your move, she was saying with dark purple lips in a pout, and Olivier D'Grey never did disappoint in this game.

"You know what the first thing I ever taught my brother was?" He asks her, uncrinkling the fold and surveying the article once more. 

"I don't," she said as she sets the tea-cup down and folds her arms over the table. Tilting her head at him, she continues in a dry little tease, "Or am I supposed to say I assume it was something untoward and evil?"

That makes him grin, in that way those in the know get. 

"It was French," Olivier chuckles.

"So, yes then?" Even as it's framed as a question, Daniella's tone leaves no room for the answer: they both know she's right. With another small peal of laughter and an acknowledging nod, Olivier drops the paper back to the table.

"Well i say taught -- I didn't really teach him it," he continues as if uninterrupted, "merely inspired his study and helped him stumbling over the masculine and feminine aspects."

That makes her furrow brows in surprise, lift chin slight as if every motion Daniella makes was decided on first by a cineamatographer in her mind. How else do you explain her always managing to choose the best lighting for herself? She only ever showed him her good side.

"Wait, but...Italian has feminine an-," she starts. He waves that off.

"Le versus Le," he says, the first sounding like 'Lou' and the second like 'Lay'. She mouths 'ah' but he explains further anyways. He never could miss a chance to show-off his knowledge. "In Italian it's the feminine plural for English's "the", where as in French --"

"Male singular," she trills in a natural-born French accent. Olivier grins. Impressive of someone who spent her early years on an English countryside, courtesy of his father. Come to think of it? It truly is no wonder she and Tony get along so well, how close in age were they when they both went to live with their fathers?

"And you were what, when you taught him this, eight years old?"

Olivier's grin is slight and proud.

"Seven," this he waves off as well, eyes falling back to the gruesome shot in full color, "six when he first started."

Daniella bites down on her lip. It could not have been any clearer that she was saying 'oh' with some amount of regret behind her words as she scoops another thing of sugar into her cup.

"When you met?" She asks, as if she doesn't know. As if he isn't so proud of her for knowing, too. 

"Because, we met." Olivier corrects again, to her chagrin (or maybe she was hunching with further regret -- for some reason it still was exceptionally difficult for him to read her) and his small smile. This time she doesn't say anything, like she learned her lesson on trying to guess. 

"I took a chance that I could ask our nonna questions about him in French without his understanding. Just in case 'is he my full brother or half' insulted Tonio, I presume."

He swirls his mug hovering under his mouth between sips. Daniella doesn't blink.

"Always thinking of him," she says, soft and sweet when honestly even if she's right, his manner of doing so had never been either. He nods now, half a shrug.

"He said after that now he had to learn French, because I knew it." His voice grows with the weight of ponderance as his thumb flicks against the lip of the mug, "Brothers should know the same stuff."

Daniella gives him a moment. When he stirs, it's to the sound of her spoon in her mouth licking it clean because no, he just never could be oblivious to that sight no matter what else haunts his mind.

"And he did," he reports, smiling wider. "Next time we met up he greeted me in flawless French. Had the accent and everything."

"At five?"

Daniella sounds more surprised than she should have in his opinion. He has to keep reminding himself she only met his brother a few months back. When she happened across him in his favorite take-out Noodle bar and then kept the order warm for him in his penthouse when Tony came careening after him at the Gala. Yeah, see, even their meeting didn't lend itself to "casual acquaintances" -- chance as it might seem. (D'Grey happens across his fair few number of people too.) When you add in her hijacking a liquor store to give him a bottle to down before driving him, passed out and bloody, four hours across country lines to help him back up into the apartment? Hell, she's done his brother's -laundry.-

"Oui. So I responded excited in French...and he blinked, and...then said the exact same thing he said the first time."

Daniella's laugh was warm.

"Ah, troublemaking wise ass even at five. Knew I liked him for some reason."

Yes, D'Grey wonders idly, but what's the real reason?

"Well, six." Olivier corrects with a shrug, turning the paper over now and leaning back in his chair to better look at her. "It was right after Christmas. So he'd had like six months too."

"Precocious runs in the family, then?"

"Says the girl who emancipated herself at thirteen."

The corner of her lips perks again. Her hand seems to float to her shoulder, squeezing in slight discomfort over her jacket, as if soothing a neck crick. Yet as she reaches over for the little sugar tray and casts a glance back down, Daniella says instead, "Touché. Are we going to dance around the subject all morning, then? I have things to do."

"The subject?" Olivier's feigned attempt at ignorance irritates her, but he doesn't let that soften his smirk. He never did.

"My best friend published a photograph of your brother in a compromising position online and now," Daniella raises a hand open palm to gesture the ceiling and has the nerve to look righteous, "it's on the front page of the paper."

She taps the folded newsprint with a sparkly nail. It's the gesture of a prophet, indicating with sweet patience the obvious fact floating in front of your face. For all her condescending kindness, Olivier still finds it himself to shrug a shoulder, as if to say 'and your point is?' without even missing a beat.

So she shrugs back as she posits, "Call me paranoid, but such a thing seems hardly conducive to us having any kind of healthy relationship."

"So does my indulging in your blood," Olivier points out with a soft sigh and smaller smirk as if both are grand gestures, "You don't seem to have a problem with that."

Daniella sips her coffee. 

"You're right." Her pinky trails her lip, then pops out, pointing matter of the fact at the ceiling. "I accept your genetics. _Mi dispacie_."

"You do more than ac--" Olivier starts.

"Are we really going to have this fight yet again when your brother is stuck sitting in a jail cell?" She cuts him off, hand jabbing into the air. It's the wrong thing to say. And yet so few people are willing to tell him bad news he thinks it might be right after all. With a shrug as he folds arms back on his chest and kicks legs out, he offers back, "This way he doesn't get the opportunity to tell me I-told-you-so."

Daniella snorts, reaches over the table to pick up the newspaper and slip it back in her coat pocket. If that was her way of saying she meant to take the win and run, it only makes him more determined to follow her. 

"Right because, when he was sixteen he was out there telling you even though I consent it's monstrously wrong to do--"

"Telling me makes it seem like I didn't know that already."

"With every part of your being that wasn't you know, craving with every inch."

"Exactly. In fact? That goes without saying," Olivier lifts eyebrows to wiggle, self-righteous, smug and humble somehow at once as he adds, "and he was punching me, not just lecturing."

Daniella pauses, buttoning the top of her coat. As her hair flips over her shoulder, she adds, "In French?"

The 'touche' lost on his tongue as it glues to the roof of his mouth. Wrong-footed, but in a glorious kind of way, D'Grey finds himself shaking his head and squeezing his shoulders as he looks to his fine-crafted Italian shoes and asks her incredulous, "Are we ever going to have straightforward conversations, Daniella?"

She stands, snapping coat in place and purse shut before slipping strap over her shoulder. The tip she leaves is two Euros too much by his measure, but he doesn't quibble that little detail. Her eyes never leave his as she lays the coins down, her voice light even as her quick heart betrays her fear.

"Are you going after Amalie?"

He waits a beat. The right answer was 'yes' in his mind, by every rule his father ever taught him. Well, if his father ever gave a damn about Tony. Ha! Then he reaches across the table, lays another coin beside her hand, and places palm over the back of hers as he retorts in a rapid Italian accent, "You know my objection is that I don't want to hurt you, don't you?"

Her eyes snap back to his, blue and earnest, and fast enough that he realizes it's the most honest thing she's ever told him when she squeezes his hand in return and says after a nod, "You know that's not something to be ashamed of, don't you?"

Blue eyes wide on hers, his lips dry and crack.  The sentence - simple and quick - seems to slice a pathway straight through him, like it takes it's time cutting to comprehension around his ears and makes an arrow's beeline for his heart. Sure it's not, he thinks, bitter and raw - like his father wouldn't be disappointed, like his brother isn't laughing behind his hand that she must be a _fuh-reek_. For a brief moment, Olivier is glad she held his hand when she spoke. Then his fingers slip through hers, his throat coughs clear (he really must see a doctor about this) and he stands too, zipping coat back up. 

"I'm not ashamed of it," he says quietly, and as earnestly as she had spoken, "but I am unsure."

The corner of her lips perks up as she finishes coffee and leaps the cup on the table.

"No one's ever hurt me, Olivier," she says, and he knows she's being perfectly honest again. It's unsettling. Maybe he didn't have a problem with the conversational foreplay. No, in fact, that was much more comfortable and enjoyable -- but she didn't seem to get his eyebrow memo (note: must teach her that as soon as possible).

"And maybe," she says as she pushes her chair in without taking her eyes off his, "maybe I think it's time I let someone try."

His chin lifts in surprise. Yet she's no sooner let him process this she lifts her hand again and points at him, dead-on, blank-faced and hard-chips in her voice as she adds, "But you hurt my girl, and I will bury you."

Yeah, Olivier knows he shouldn't laugh at this, but - but he couldn't help it, okay? Oh, she meant it. He knows that. It's why he laughs. The threat was something he'd say -something he understands, and the blaze of recognition and appreciation for it is like the sun behind her. Leaning in abruptly, he kisses her cheek and lifts a finger to tuck hair behind her ear, index drawing down the pink line of her jaw. Her breath smelt of chocolate espresso and some kind of lingering mint toothpaste, and it distracts him while she smirks and chuckles, muttering to herself something about how she honestly was a freak, but at least they both were.

(Yeah, thank God. Or maybe it's not God he should thank.)

Hands bury in his pockets before he responds with a head tilt unmistakably adding a request for privacy. He'll say this for Daniella: she understands silent pleas and leads the way out the door without begging for words to explain. They walk down crosswalks and promenades underline silver cloads on the grey Parisian morning. Halfway across a piazza she slips her hand in his, and he spends probably an inordinate and inappropriate amount of time wondering why she didn't wear any gloves. They cross into the _jardin_ before he finally speaks again, answering the question she probably needed answered most -- but not the one he needs to figure out most for himself. 

"With regard to Amalie," he starts, and once again she snaps her eyes to his and he thinks she hasn't looked so fierce since she swore to know him, "I have a hard time...faulting her, when she neither lies in that damn article, nor does anything but help me out, since she proved the chain of evidence broken."

Daniella says nothing. The ice in her eyes tells him she expects the next shoe, but there's a softness in her lips as she waits for it too, like she's trying not to say she'd feel the same way if it was her brother.

"I also have a hard time forgiving anyone, who calls my brother a monster."

Her hand squeezes his, then drops. Maybe it was the raw honesty in his voice, or the look on his face, or maybe it was just the fact she knew and cared for Tony too, but she doesn't try and deny that it was precisely what that article said. Scratching loose hair behind her ear as the wind tries to claim it, she looks across the marble path to watch a squirrel stealing an acorn out of a hole. Her nods are quick, like she's saying it's fair and she agrees -- except of course, that isn't what she says. 

"Except for Tony himself."

Aha. Olivier shakes his head, albeit slowly.

"You of all people know I've never been great at forgiving him for the things I should, Dani."

She purses her lips and -- he thinks, bewildered, her heart seemed to have skipped a beat. At least he wasn't the only one this conversation was uncomfortable for? He tried to believe that but...that feels wrong too. She lets out a sigh as he looks to her kitten heeled boots and murmurs, "I suppose this is the least of the offenses, then."

That makes him grin, straighten, as contrarily as ever (though fairly this time she supposed, he had been the one to bring it all up). His demeanor uncannily reminiscent of 'you think?' She chuckles too. The sound comes almost as a relief as she returns to dancing around it all, adding, "You know you already owed Amalie one, by the way."

He cocks an eyebrow. It doesn't take him long to figure out what she meant but then, Olivier had always been praised for his deductions. 

"Ah, the...Damoyei blood ritual, you mean?" 

She wiggles her eyebrow back at him. He thinks he should tell her she was coming on to him with their patented D'Grey eyebrow communication but...well, he never does mind her hitting on him in truth. 

"Thought you forgot about that."

"You tend not to forget cara, if your girlfriend can take a person's mind over, actually," Olivier shrugs a shoulder and then adds cheeky as he turns them down another portico path, "especially when she threatens you not fifteen minutes ago."

Daniella reaches out with her hand again with a side smirk as she says softer, "Well, mine's close to as genetic as yours you know," and he takes it with a nod, then kisses the top of her palm before saying he had work to go do. It's remarkable that when she says she does too, neither one of them ask the other to elaborate, nor do they volunteer it. Instead they talk of going to a movie that evening. It was easier than telling the truth. 


	30. “You want to run a play on D’Grey, on his turf, in a city with his rules?”

She’s sitting in a coffee shop when she hears them.

 

Two of them, arguing amongst themselves in low voices, glancing over their shoulders, hunched over the coffee cups they order - black, on the half-hour, as if they’d otherwise be kicked out of the little bistro. Behavior screaming ‘please don’t look at us’, it was unlikely she would do anything else. Chantel had always prided herself on being unique. And besides, it was strange to find vampires hiding in Paris. The pair of them evidently prided being unique as well. That, and their stupidity, judging on their conversation and the fact that neither of them seemed to notice her.

 

They gave her no names to work with, smart enough to hide those and careful to avoid mentions of them. Instead she called one of them ‘tall one’ and the other ‘fat one’, lest she call either one of them small and offend their manhood. They weren’t exceedingly clever nicknames, but they weren’t exceedingly clever criminals.

 

“I’m telling you, he’ll be grateful, he will—“

 

“You want to run a play on D’Grey, on his turf, in a city with his rules?”

 

Newborns, she thought with a purse of her pout and flick of a scarlet tongue to fang. Theo would have offered to indulge her “kink” (all in good humor), surely, if Fat One hadn’t just gone and said that.

 

‘Oh ho’, she mused under her breath, and blew out on her coffee, then took a sip to scald her mouth. Her fingernails rap smartly down on the table, listening to their doubts and fears. Tall One thought Remington’s death should be scorned (that was his first mistake), and Antonio’s imprisonment was another ‘sign’ they could pull it off with “only the son.” (Their second.) His companion squished in his chair, the plastic resin on the seat showing strain behind him in taut, red cushions. Both tapped fingers or feet, shuffling and crumpling napkins, shifting eyes over to glance at her splendor before ducking away. Ah, they sat by her on purpose then. Well. Chantel couldn’t fault him if his idea was that people would be too busy staring at her to give them notice.

It’s the thought that counts.

 

“—are D’Grey’s men looking for a waitress?”

 

“That’s only because the witness report stated the photographer was a waitress -“

“Oh is that all!?”

 

Her eyes sparkle with something that wasn’t amusement, whatever the smile on her lips. The quick rendition that had the exhausted air one gets only when they’ve said this a hundred times before: the detective had two hunters on her side, and her partner knew a pair they got all hushed about and died off quick. That made Chantel’s pout deepen. Curious, to be in Paris and unafraid to scorn D’Grey in public and yet this one shut them both down. And she was sure she’d heard the name Laura somewhere before…

 

“Why don’t we just sell him the information itself?” Fat One asked.

 

“You know how many false tips there are reported a day?”

 

Point for the Tall One. Shame about his scorn, he would have been fun to play with.

 

“So you propose we nick this kid from a pack of wolves who are out for blood -“

 

“Well, you did kill one of them.” Point for the Fat One, and a death warrant signed for the Tall One if she told D’Grey that tidbit. He’d been looking for the vampire who broke his peace, after all, though not nearly so much as the wolf that broke it first. His *brother*, she tutted to herself, going after his *brother* was…damnably suicidal. She’d give him one thing: this Ansel Dorat had guts. Though maybe, not as many as his pet reporter outing herself and putting her name on that picture. Chantel wanted a copy signed so she could frame it, unsure if the photo or the article turned her on more.

 

“Do you even know where he’s supposed to be?”

 

“I told you I got it out of her —“ his voice flustered like a butterfly was trapped in his throat and Chantel sighed, feeling strangely sad for him. One of his first kills too then, she thought. And if D’Grey knew (ha, listen to her, if…) then, like to be his last. As if the mutt he killed surely hadn’t deserved it.

 

“—anyway, why do you think we’re here in this caffe?”

 

“I thought you liked the barrista’s perfume?”

 

“Okay, not the point, that’s the point.”

 

Tall One jerked his finger over his shoulder, then folded his arms on the table and went all red with the waitress his companion mentioned floating over to ask in a timid, sweet voice if they wanted a refill. Chantel regards the hungry look at the woman’s neck, impressed at the mild restraint. If they wanted to curry favor with Olivier then to be sure, refraining from terrorizing Parisian citizens was a fabulous way to appeal to his strange sentimentality over this city.

Nail scraping the edge of her chin, she begins rooting around for her clutch, pulling out scarlet lipstick she didn’t truly need and a hand mirror. Reflected over her shoulder was the apartment building they’d mentioned. Her rapt eyes take in the structure: sturdy, old pink brick with a slatted roof and fire escape iron-work clinging to it like a spider clenching for dear life up a water spout. There appeared two cameras, and while her friendly neighborhood kidnappers suspect them dummies she knew better. Those wires were live…if only because the new Alpha mutt in town had proved he wasn’t easy to trifle with. (She supposed his former affiliation with Hans and D’Grey, not to mention that She-Bitch on his arm made him feel untouchable. As if anyone was, as if they weren’t all begging in some way to be touched in the first place.)

 

She stayed just long enough to know when they were going to strike. The best time to steal anything was when it was in transit — and no armored car or newbie vamps were going to stop D’Grey once he knew where this witness was. Then she stood, walked across the winding, cramped road and pressed a scarf to her throat with the wind. A stench of wet, sweating dog hung stagnant over the painted doorway - and she was stalled a few feet in front of it by some invisible force. Her nose crinkles up, face plainly reading ‘as if the smell wasn’t enough to keep my distance.’ No doubt they marked the brick as dogs did. Disgusted, she turned away.

 

Two hours passed without her moving from the wall across, coffee cup in hand. Her own companion was en route, yet it took a great deal more than vague clues to an elusive witness to hurry any vampire’s approach. Ruffling hair gently when a balcony door opened, she licked blood from the tip of her lip. (Look, she’d never said she’d been idle on this wall and the alley was privately warded and shielded…) Oh, pft, it’s not like D’Grey begrudged her eating ever. He’d liked just fine to drink from her.

 

The tall window up top opened a sliver, as if the steel itself was afraid despite it’s height, shivering in wind that toussled scarlet curls. Tapping her boot’s heel on the floor, her ears zeroed in on the frantic phone call to some girl named ‘Lila.’  And when her companion arrived a few minutes later, Chantel’s smile was red and wide.

 

Turning to indicate a moment of silence with a wave of an index finger that came to a needle-point tip, she pressed the cell to her ear and spoke into the box.

“D’Grey, you’ll never guess what I just learned.”

 

Next to her, the woman sighed the moment she said ‘D’Grey’, and she shot her a look to be quiet. The model was only too aware of Chantel’s connections, and all too quick to disapprove — but at least it wasn’t petty jealousy. A strand of Sabel’s hair wrapped around the index finger, and she tugged to calm her down with a wink.

 

On the other end of the line, the taut voice she’d learned a long time ago to recognize as one preceding carnage (or carnal activities, it did sound as if his girlfriend was in the room) answered, “To be honest, Chantel, I never can guess what you’re up to.” There’s a sound like he pushed a laptop away from him. A plunk-ding start-up noise echoes in her ear before he concluded, “Any more than you do.”

 

“Oh don’t be like that,” Her nail was now tracing Sabel’s neck, licking her top lip, “I found your witness.”

 

There’s dead silence.

 

Then, “Where?”

 

A bullet of a word. She giggled, let Sabel go and turned to read out the address. Then she cautioned, “Surrounded by a couple of guard-dogs, with a pair of baby vamps on his tail. They move him every day. The babies want to take him so they can sell him to you, think you’d doubt their word.”

“Him?”

 

“Jean Valente.” She said, the corner of her lip quirking up, “Friend of your new Alpha from boyhood. They lied about the waitress on the dog’s advice.”

Others would have been leaping in to action, jumping out the door, calling guards, loading bullets, slamming fists or breaking things. Others like the very brother incarcerated for the sake of this poor boy with regrets pouring out to Lila on the phone. D’Grey didn’t appear to do any of them. Now she couldn’t even hear the laptop; there was nothing but silence on the other end of static air, heavy with violent promise.

“Thank you, Chantel.”

 

And that was it; the line was cut, phone dead-weight. She pocketed it as Sabel said, “You’ve always been too fond of these damn hybrids, you know that?”

 

“So I have a single soft spot, Sabe,” Chantel as she drew her under her arm and nuzzled the woman’s dark braids, kissing the tip of her ear as she hissed, “Tell me, is that a crime now too?”


	31. Free of Charges?

Early morning Paris was one of his favorites; the light was bright enough to cast warmth and soft illumination to the many sights the tourists call home, yet not vibrant enough to blare and glare at his sensitive hybrid skin. (The thought quirks the corner of Olivier's lips; as if anything could mar his olive skin.) There was the feeling of everything starting, beginning even without the call of 'Marie! The baguettes!' his brother would usually offer as it 'just didn't feel right otherwise'. Maybe it was just him, but he found people willing to lisen to him in the morning, or at least more gracious. After all, it was night that gave Paris over to a hunting ground and even as a boy, he'd been the one first up to tend to the victims. They'd do what he wanted and be grateful about it then. An idle chuckle passes his lips as he thinks that over, wondering why people tried to rule through fear.   
  
(Or rather, only through fear, as he admits to a certain amount of that.)  
  
Adjusting the cashmere around his neck with a casually gloved hand as he rounds the park, Olivier finds himself pausing, head tilted. Huh. Humming in his ear, a loud reverberating heart informs him kindly he's about to be knocked into and at the last, perfectly proper moment, he takes a step back. The running man in all grey and khakis trips once, twice, then catches himself as if he was thrown by the lack of impact before surging forward from desperation.   
  
Bemused, Olivier lifts the corner of his coffee travel mug to take a sip watching the careening trainwreck in front of him make it all of ten meters before a loud, sharp call of "Policia! Attente!" causes him to almost trip again. Tutting the fugitive's poor form, Olivier's eyes track the arrival of a gun-drawn detective in flats and a trench coat, brown hair caught everywhere in her pursuit. Ah! Just the girl he was looking for.  
  
He takes another sip. He keeps doing so lest it get cold as she knocks the man to the ground, calls out his rights, hauls him up after wrestling hand cuffs on. It finishes the coffee off as the events unfold in front of him as precise and textbook inevitable as if first they were described by a psychiatrist and next they were shot on film by Dick Wolf for his new show Law and Order: Paris. Oh, he should write that down. Give it to Amalie, ask the policia's finest in front of him to star. She wouldn't even have to change her wardrobe! Maybe add some lipstick, but...truly, he thought to nominate her for an Olivier (Laurence Olivier award that was, in London) or a BAFTA if the performance she gives now was any indication.  
  
"You're just going to stand there, aren't you?"   
  
Oh, she was talking to him now, wasn't she? Pulled from the idle, meandering train of thought, Olivier chuckles to himself and slips the empty mug into his pocket.  
  
"I know better than to insult you by offering help, Detective Dale."  
   
Yup, that right there, in her eyes? That was begrudging amusement tinged only by her active dislike and exhasperation. She's not even out of breath, he realizes, whatever her high speed pursuit. Impressive. He follows a few steps behind as she starts walking the man down the alley; towards her car, he presumes.   
  
"Yeah, well just keep walking, all right?" She says as she passes him, half dragging the man.   
  
"Actually, I was looking for you." Olivier shoves his hands deeper into his pockets. It stalls her, and she huffs out, pushing her detainee against the wall to hold still and hair flips back over her shoulder.  
  
"Yeah?" She asks, eying him keen and alert. Olivier shrugs his agreement, then lets a smirk curl against his chapped lips at her sardonic presumption.   
  
"Let me guess, you uh, know this man?"   
  
For the first time paying the bloke a second glance, Olivier deliberately gives him a once over to ascertain he doesn't, paying her that courtesy even if it was more in jest than anything else. After apparently making sure, his face screws up with bemused apology and light confusion, and after flicking his mouth with gloved fingertips he remarks, "Sorry to disappoint you, Detective, can't say I do. What'd he do?"  
  
"Oh, your run of the mill racketeering and blackmail, side of aggravated assault."   
  
He smirks.  
  
"Ah, see, no wonder, not high enough to be on my radar."   
  
With a high cock of her neck and laugh, she comments, "Yeah, all right D'Grey."  
  
Of course, he's not surprised she doesn't believe him as he would have said the exact same thing if he did know him. What's more irritating is the utterance of his name (clearly with derision) had made the bloke turn around again, pleading with wide eyes. (Or Olivier thought that was what he was doing; he wouldn't know when he wasn't looking away from the detective.)  
  
"So if you're not going to try to bribe me to let him go," she continues brightly (he smirked), "then what do you say we catch up another time?"  
  
He follows her to the car now with an exhale, non-deterred by her response anymore than he was bothered by anything transpiring in front of him.  
  
"D'aw it'll just take a minute, Detective," he says with an exhale, a few feet back from the car, not caring that she'd attempted to walk off either. She shoots him a look, but clearly knew what she was doing by not engaging further. He waits until she's shoved the handcuffed man into her car. Then offers freely,  
  
"Ansel Dorat."  
  
Oh! Listen to that skip in her heart.   
  
She knew better than to look at him as she spoke, anyway, knowing that would have given it all away for her careful face-crafting and sarcastic defense he knew so well. Waiting to let the name sink in, he shrugs a shoulder as he offers freely again, "Thought you might want to know the kind of man you're in bed with."  
  
Turning around to him as she shuts the door, Alys waits a moment before leaning elbow on her car and smirking back at him.  
  
"Why would I want to know? Spoils the fun."  
  
"As much as I approve of that logic," Olivier said, smirk unmoved, pausing to regard his breath in the January air. "You don't strike me as a woman who acts before she does research."  
  
"Then what precisely do you think you're going to tell me," she asks with a head tilt, foot tapping on the ground, "that I don't already know?"  
  
Oliviet doesn't say anything. Well, verbally. His eyebrow pops. Except his brother was the only one who was going to understand that and he didn't have Tony back with him. (Yet.) So, hey, he has to wait a little longer for her to realize he knew more than her simply for being who he was (and, you know, a certain blonde brat), but she got there eventually. Scowling and scoffing, she pushed off the door and walked up to the front, snapping, "Yeah thanks D'Grey, have a nice day," but he just smirks and returns, "Oh, I will. I have a meeting later that will finally bring justice to my brother."  
  
She huffs, clearly interested and yet irritated with herself for the curiosity.  
  
"Oh," he wiggles a hand of surrender up, "Don't worry Detective, your witness is just fine. I wouldn't hold anyone's confusion against them, after all."  
  
"Confusion?" She scoffs at him again, but he sees it; she's waiting for the other shoe to drop, she knows that there is something she's missing, probably had known it since she met Ansel if her conversation with his brother the day of his arraignment was any indication.   
  
"Honest mistake," Olivier acknowledges with a shoulder shrug, but doesn't elaborate further on that. It wasn't the "polite bullshit speak" (as Tony would say) that he'd come to see her about.   
  
"Believe me or not, Detective, but I hardly want war to return to the streets of Paris anymore than you do."  
  
Alys catches a strand of her hair in a tight grip to survey him better. The sun was creeping higher behind him, he notes by the squint. Unless that was an expression of carefully hidden loathing; it might be, ah well, not his problem. There was honesty, somber and knowledgable, in the way he regards her as an equal for a moment.  
  
"What do you want, D'Grey? If you haven't noticed," the handcuffed man was banging metal against her car window, he realizes with some amusement and then puts it from his mind again,  "I'm a little busy."  
  
Ah, yes. And he wasn't? He was on his way to Church; it was a happy accident ("accident") that he came across her now.  
  
"Your first supernatural case," he continues without pause, voice still dry, "had two victims."  
  
"What about it?"  
  
Alys had that no nonsense attitude he did so love in a detective; it made things easier, even as he laments the loss of graceful courtesies.  
  
"It led to you, I presume, allying with hunters -- which no doubt has left you very successful, but you never found the killer, did you?"  
  
"You telling me you know who it was, and you'll give me the information if I drop the charges against your brother?"   
  
Olivier looks skywards, pointing gloved fingertip up to the sun behind him with an 'oh' to his lips, as if she'd just given him the idea for the first time. Then he exhales, as if snagging on a mental thorn she shot in his face with her eyes alone.  
  
"Again you expect me to insult your integrity, Detective - no, this comes free of ah - charge. Or charges, if you prefer. "  
  
Alys laughs, brushing her hair away from her lips and nods after pursing them. The squinty look vanishes for a moment, making him think it was the sun after all.   
  
"All I ask is that in the future," Olivier takes a step forward as he speaks, undoing his dresscoat's buttons and pulling out the manilla folder, "you consider that my brother isn't your, or Paris', enemy."   
  
She says nothing, looking at the folder in his hand. He's impressed. He had expected an outcry over the fact it was her case file he held, but her gaze gives away nothing. In fact, she didn't even let her heart skip that time. Without taking it, her eyes flick up to his, expectantly waiting.  
  
"Nicolette Valentina, one of the two victims, affectionately known as 'Colette' -- you used to babysit her, didn't you?"  
  
Again, her face gives away nothing, though he hears a hitch of breath in her throat.  
  
"And...first time you ever met Ansel Dorat, I wager you had this funny feeling you'd met him before. De ja vou, as it were."   
  
Alys lifts her chin, saying simply, "Due respect, Monsieur D'Grey, what's your point?"  
  
He puts the file in her hand and says easily, "You had. You met him as Colette's boyfriend, and again when he made you forget you ever had known him. Didn't you wonder, why he would emerge from the woodwork and trust you out of anyone else at the department with his information?"  
  
Alys bites down on her lip. The wind picks up, obscuring the sound of her heart and throat for an instant -- unless they'd gone silent with the chill.   
  
"Take it, or don't. I'm afraid there is no DNA evidence to be found to support that he killed them -- any that existed was wiped as clean as your memory was, Detective. As I said. All I ask is you consider it, particularly when my brother is vindicated. You're lucky he's more forgiving than I am," Olivier adds as he pulls back and takes a few steps to let her retreat to her car. At that though, Alys' squint was back, lips drawn in a thin glare.  
  
"Enjoy your day, cara," he adds without mentioning his threat again, shoulder shrugging as he turns away. He whistles, hands in pockets, as he hears the slamming door and car start, sirens blaring cut short as she snapped them off. You don't need the warning when the perpetrator was already caught.


	32. "...They're likely to talk, aren't they?"

He heard them arguing as he approached; their voices too loud. One of them at least seemed to understand this, at least, as much as he didn't understand what the word 'loud' meant, the way he snapped at his companion to shut up. Irked, their unknown observer flicked the flap of skin below his ear. Eyes cold, for now he said naught, observing with a quiet dart. The neck he kept still; breath buried deep on a dry throat, itching for something they were lucky he chose to ignore. For now. 

Nothing was special about the location; a warehouse, fat with it's abandon, stuffed full of frayed mooring rope, empty stalls, forgotten boxes rotted through. The mold on the wall was living color compared to the paint someone slapped on steel a half century ago. It's just near the Seine's base, the curve before it officially entered Parisian jurisdiction. Perhaps that was why they thought it was clever. They escaped the technical boundaries, hovering just on that line as they argued and maybe that would have mattered if it was the police they'd been concerned about. As it was, Madonna knew they had to be new, arguing about everything: did he bring the rope, did he have the right tape (the kind that wouldn't rip, and yes there was a brand for that as he knew well), did they remember to call Pietro's sister to tell her (lie) where he was. It's only a mild surprise neither of them chided the other to remember to pick up milk. A corner quirked up on lips thin when he heard his name. 

"Remember, we're not calling D'Grey until -- "

"I'm not calling D'Grey, period." 

Oh?, the D'Grey they spoke in hushed whispers about thought with an eyebrow creased over the jut of his forehead, as if written in bone. 

"You think I have that number?" 

Ah, the man thought and put his eyebrow back down. A practical matter, then. His hand fluttered in a suede jacket, the pocket lined with silk and button clasp open as he slid it's single content into a waiting palm. The move was smooth, practiced and unhurried, and never once did he take his dark gaze from the two men. Idly, he contemplated why they hadn't heard him approach. After all, he was only half vampire, against their full bodied status. But then again, he supposed he'd never let that stop him. 

"What are you going to do then?" Eifel said, and a single glance told him it was probably the one his informant had unkindly remarked was overweight. 

Eifel had been turned a year and a half ago; the other was Rober, a milder skinnier man obsessed with caution, older by a year and the Sire of his companion. You'd never know it, by Eifel's lip. But then, he supposed, sons talked back to their fathers every day. A great few even betrayed them (or was that a few great ones?)

"I know a guy," Rober bragged, his height seeming to gain at least half a meter. Who knew a guy who knew a guy, D'Grey finished for him internally, knowing the exact chain the vampire would have taken before D'Grey's phone would have rang. Luckily for them, Chantel was always a bit more direct. A trace of genuine amusement grazed the corner of his mouth again as he rubbed at it, but vanished with a single heartbeat. 

"I still don't get why we're helping a man you consider almost evil -- "

Why, what an insult. It hurt to hear. Only almost?

"Look, I didn't choose the guy! News-flash, you don't vote for kings!" 

"You don't," D'Grey agreed, elbow folded on a steel framework as he leaned into it, the other hand still toying inside his pocket, "It...kind of defeats the purpose of being King." 

Two guns immediately flash his way. In return, he flashed a smile at the barrells that never crawled up the remaining centimeter to actually meet his eyes. Otherwise, he didn't move, let their angry inquiries fill the air.  Qui es-toi ? Comment as-tu nous trouvés? Que fais-toi ici? Quick, nervous shouts wash over his ears until he flicked one again, as if he'd only just noticed neither of their hearts beat and it was the only thing he cared about answering right now. Genuinely curious by the weapons, his eyebrows move as they ever did, taking in the way Eifel's hand was steady on the trigger, opposed to Robar's tepid grip. Narrowing his gaze as if to zoom a lens, D'Grey let out a single unamused chuckle. Did he realize he had his safety on? 

"Ah, boys I'll forgive your rude greetings if you answer for me one question, s'il vous plaît?" 

They exchange a look with each other as he spoke in English, plain as day, without their thick accents on the words. He slowed, still in English, as they seemed to have thought that was the language they could speak in without being understood. They should have hired men from Portugal; any other country in the European Union and he'd understand them well enough. Dad taught him well, he thought. Well enough to know that a vampire shouldn't be using a gun.

" -- why, would a man capable of ripping my throat out with a single pinky finger and flick of fang, need a gun?" 

D'Grey didn't move as Robar suddenly lowered pistol and hand. Eifel was stiff as he's hit, twice with the butt of the gun (ah, he did know he had the safety on then). It still took a hushed mutter hot on the man's ear  \-- c’est D'Grey, imbécile  \-- before he dropped the weapon to his side again. Even still, he didn't put it away, and his finger was still hovering the trigger. It's not a surprise. After all, it probably had been bad form to reference the first documented kill Eifel made when turned -- pinky and fang was hardly a common combination, and he never was one for missing an opportunity. At least the man had the sense not to speak to his discomfort. D'Grey followed the forefinger with his eyes, quiet in approval, distinctly unruffled as he's recognized. Had to have some advantages to it, otherwise just what was the point of being -- as they said -- "king"? Drumming a finger on the steelwork, he didn't say a word, let them sweat looking at each other (ah, all right, figure of expression, excuse his little joke, he knew very well vampires didn't sweat). 

When his finger tapped the steel again, Robar finally answered, "They're -- insurance, we were --"

"Looking for me, oui," D'Grey nodded once. His voice was curt, pushing off the frame and taking a single step. It rattled behind him. His nail pointed at Eifel, "On another matter of insurance, I understand." He took another step, then another, the slow encroachment driven with a smooth certainty of control over a situation. 

"You, Eifel," he continued the man stiffened to be recognized as well, "seem to have put your Sire here in a bit of a," his eyes trailed over wire coiled at the tall man's feet, wire still awaiting an occupant, "bind." 

He flicked his gaze up again, stopped.

"Few weeks ago, you kidnapped, drained and left a woman named Cecily for the authorities to find in Buttes-Chaumont. Which," D'Grey clucked his tongue against the roof of his mouth as he watched the already pale man lose all color, "wouldn't be my concern, oui, except that Cecily?" Quirking his chin closer as he looked at the man, beside them Robar was wondering how a man could look up and down at someone in the same single eye-flick. "Was a werewolf, and therefore meant to be under my protection." 

Robar made a disgusted noise to interrupt, all apparent concern vanishing for propriety as he said, "What, are you half wolf now too?" 

D'Grey looked at him, even until Robar looked away. 

"What I am," he said with patience feigning at being thin, "is the man who made it safe for you to feed without fear of being hunted down and killed for being what *you* are. At least," and for a moment D'Grey was cheery, "within these city walls. But then, we've left those, haven't we?" 

He looked. Behind them, a stiff wind had raised on chopped waters. Here the river didn't glide and sway a gentle curve into the city, but cut against itself as it choked up into shorter banks like it's filled with cars on the arrondissement, late to work and filled with French ... how you say, charm. A shiver slipped up both vampires spines, then back down with something akin to dread. It was a weight settled on their throats, it seemed, considering neither said a word. If they thought that would make him break the silence again, uncomfortable or infuriated by their lack of cooperation, it would be the second time they underestimated him. An odd sort of luck to have, actually. Underestimating D'Grey had a, say, deleterious effect on a person's expected life span. 

A noise behind him, likely just a rat scurrying off, reminded all of them they were going to be joined soon -- though, D'Grey didn't think it come soon enough. At least it made them answer him; he might play at looking impatient, but his father would have been so disappointed had he grown up without learning how to wait for a man. The thought did something to his chest as he contemplated it at the back of his mind. It was ... strange, how easily he recalled Dad's words of advice when he was working, as if he didn't spend most of the day trying not to think about him, let alone why and how he died. Yet now, just as when he worked, thinking of his father was a comfort to him as much as it would (probably) have turned Tony red with rage until he stalked backwards with a pout that reduced him to ten years old and demanded to be left to rot in the cell.

(Only hadn't. His little brother had demanded only that he do it "right", made him promise not to kill anyone to get him out, then burrowed in his shoulder and squeezed him tightly enough he would have snapped a normal human in half. Olivier didn't break his word. He only followed it to the...strictest interpretation. In another life, maybe he'd been a lawyer. His grandfather had been.) 

"Look.  She attacked me first, and then she started saying how you -- you were -- " Eifel started, falling silent. Ah, so, she'd called him some name and he was afraid of him enough to repeat it now. D'Grey tilted his head. They had the guns, the full-fledged fangs, the numbers. What did he have, beside his last name and a knife in his pocket? Well, to be sure, the word 'hybrid' struck fear in a lot of men's hearts but, he knew better than to think that was it. No. They were deferential because he believed they should be, so they believed it too. 

"She said I was?" He echoed, when the man's voice turned only to rasps. Then, pleasant enough he added in an easy French, "Come now, Eifel, the worse her slur, the more grateful I ought to be for your defense, don't you think?"

"Oui."

"Oui..."

There was a pause, long enough for D'Grey to hear his brother's mocking voice in his mind say 'your majesty', poking him with his Jiminy sized umbrella before Eifel understood. It's a half second behind Robar, so that both of them say it in perfect synchronization. 

"Oui, monsieur." 

D'Grey smiled. It's a cold thing, as if set upon the edge of pins and sewn there by someone trying too hard to make a corpse beatified for an open casket, but they don't seem to notice. It's not surprising. These two didn't seem to notice much. He wondered if he knew just how grateful some part of him was for their service. As angry as he was for the murdered werewolf, it wasn't that which set Ansel off, however much he might pretend it was to the disloyal bunch of them. He knew that. Ansel was always going to come at him, so long as Stefanie lived under his roof in Tony's bed, and so long as his name was D'Grey, Ansel always, was going to make himself his enemy. 

Well, before he left, he'd make sure these two did know some extent his gratitude. Cecily Mileau had been seventeen years old, there was no way she attacked first. Not killing them for the innocent slaughter -- not to mention breaking his peace -- was a good start.

"Bene," D'Grey said, letting a trace of an Italian accent lilt the words, hum in his voice. Truthfully, his brother was the only native speaker; D'Grey had utter control over when and where to place accents be it in in French, Italian, or English. All three were learned from the cradle on. He didn't have one native tongue. He had three and none at all, at the same time. The thought was strangely disquieting, so he left it where it lay and turned his torso to look around the dismal place once more.

"It's my understanding," D'Grey spoke evenly, "that you're grievously sorry for being forced to break the peace in Paris and that you're eager to make amends with me."

"Most eager," Rober spoke for them both, it seemed. D'Grey didn't question it long; sires often do. His eyes were crawling over rusted, drafty walls and floor beams sick with rot.

He found it hard to imagine any man living here; even if they were running from him. Even Tony's dorm room had a bed. Well, an overlong under stuffed mattress, but he called it a bed. It had been half covered in clothes and overflowing with numerous mismatched pillows of all shapes and sizes. In those days, his brother refused to sleep without at least four of them. (Excepting the nights alcohol was involved. Then even a pool table looked like a bed). Now...

The thought of Tony on that cot soured any good feelings he'd had. Immediately, he turned back to the boys, hand burrowing deeper in his pocket. The other fiddled with the button on his lapels as he spoke. 

"Jean's living here?" 

Their faces blanched at his knowledge (as if the things he knew about Paris wouldn't make even his Nonna blush), but to the esteem of both they recovered quickly, nodded and Rober turned to point. He followed the index finger without letting his body move another muscle.  

"Over that way - or, or well he will, he's moved -"

"Every day," D'Grey nodded once, but said nothing else as he met dark eyes to hold the gaze even. He waited again through their nervous looks.  

This time Eifel explained, a twitch in his forefinger as he toyed with the trigger in his hand. A careful eye was kept on that; D'Grey knew how easily he could resume his earlier threat, who had his hand around a blade in his own pocket, fingers doing a dance mirrored to Eifel. 

"Oui, monsier," it was stiff -- but respectful enough, D'Grey decided. Tony was dealing with far worse than a little disrespect. Something red-hot burned behind his eyes. Fingers rub over his throat as he sees what Eifel is pointing at. 

"There's an apartment up there," the man elaborated, "where the overseer of the factory next door used to sleep, see? They move him here Thursdays, there's a smattering of other apartments he's in but he won't stay put..." 

There's a beat. When D'Grey flit his gaze back to him, he's amused mildly at the look of pride there. 

"Ingenius." D'Grey complimented, idle as one throws a dog a bone (or something less insulting to vampires as a metaphor). As if this had been his own plan, not Ansel's and evidently Eifel had utterly forgotten he was near enough the edge he was likely to kill whoever had been hiding the man who put his little brother in a cell. Bemused smirk on his lips, D'Grey cast another gaze at the wire, ropes and duct tape (off-brand but it would have served them). At least no one could say the morons came unprepared, si?  

"Messieurs, c'est votre jour de chance," he swapped to their native language as he spoke easily, to make them comfortable as he told them it was their lucky day. It's a reward of sorts, just as slipping in his Italian had made it more genuine to them he was, who they thought he was. With the one hand he squeezed Eifel's shoulder, the other squeezed the hilt of a shiny blade in his pocket. He knew which gesture one made them smile...and which one, made him. 

"I'm going to pardon your indiscretion with Cecily, forget all about it," he was still smiling cold, as if he could forget the murder of a seventeen year old girl who'd probably been bitten by Caelesti in the same raid his brother was forced to participate in. Dry tongue pressing behind still lips, he dug nails into Eifel's shoulder blade. It surprised him only a little how much effort it took to break skin, even if he let none of the workout show on his face. D'Grey's far too disciplined for that. And he's only a little surprised...because he knew he was nearing a month of withdrawal. D'Grey had not tasted a drop of his girlfriend's blood since the night Tony was arrested, and by now it was a vow. A little promise to try and share some suffering his brother was going through; a lie to himself he was sharing the burden. It's as if Tony wouldn't have just felt guilty and sniped something bitter about what he'd rather D'Grey did for him. 

"I'll make a deal with you just as you were going to offer me, si? Only this would be," he smiled again and let out a chuckle although no one had said anything amusing, "on my terms."

Not theirs, D'Grey made clear with dark ice stare and a gentle nudge on his shoulder as he pushed off the shoulder. 

"Jean," he kept saying the man's first name because who knew better than D'Grey on the importance of the style one chose to give themselves, "and I need to have a chat. You're going to make sure I can do that, uninterrupted. When they get here, shoot at the car, understand? Then take off running. Make sure the protectors give chase, lead them along the river. If you manage to lose them, you're done."

The men look at each other, confused. Then at him, Robar asking quietly, "That's it?" 

D'Grey shrugged; he was already walking off to the apartment, knowing he would likely have to undo wards and charms or two to even get inside. Luckily for him, the things that kept vampires like Chantel or Eifel from entering...well. Ha, ha. Ironically, he was just too human for them.

He turned back an instant to look at them, thoughtful expression on his face. 

"That's it from me; we'll be square -- though." D'Grey bit his lip, shuffled his feet, like he was bothered now by something, even if his voice was mild. Their anxiety perked up in lungs expanding to fill with air they never needed, but that's simply music to his hunter's ears,"Well. I suppose, that won't be it when their Alpha discovers what happened here. The ones who give chase to you...they're likely to talk, aren't they?" 

Olivier pointed between them as if this was just occurring to him. Then he turned back and resumed walking upstairs, left the two of them to fret in voices much too loudly again that were just bound to attract attention. 

And lo', what do you know, they were arguing about Cecily when a beat-up untagged Audi pulled in. D'Grey tutted to himself, poured a drink from the little wood rack sitting on a bookshelf. Some people never learn son, Dad would have said with no shortage of pride in him, nor his own ego. Swirling the amber liquid and wishing it was red (soon), D'Grey toasted the momentary ghost with a murmur of "Cheers", then downed it. Sure, Dad might have approved of his methods, but it was to Tony he promised not to kill anyone -- and for Tony's sake he did any of this at all. Of that, Dad would never have approved, but Olivier D'Grey, at that moment, couldn't say he cared. 

  
  



	33. How much has your childhood friend told you, Jean?

A pair of fingers -- blunt nails, smooth of callous -- snap above his head as behind him a door burst, slammed against a dusty wall, then crushed itself back in place with a man leaning his back on it, breath heavy. 

"Right on time," D'Grey said with a smile that burned retinas out. 

There's a war in the alley outside the window, a ballet of guns and anger. Shouts of entirely accurate accusations about a certain werewolf answer the first shots; then breaks slam, more shots echo, growls and a sound the man inside had long ago learned to identify as "ripping" flesh. Steps had clambered up the staircase as the one who fled fumbled for a cell phone, muttering French curse words to himself with something about how 'bloody vampires and wolves' and 'what would his grandmother think.' Now the phone dropped, spinning on it's back as if the floor shook with the cacophony outside.

He's sitting in an old leather armchair, bourbon in  hand and swirling as he regarded Jean Valente. Terror already hot on his face, the boy tried the door again immediately, jiggling and wiggling a handle that's jammed in place with fervor. D'Grey observed. The hand he snapped lands with grace, palm up on his knee. A slow lick of his upper lip descended tongue to dip back into the glass. Jean flushed. It's a feat for one of his darker coloring. Were D'Grey in a better mood he might even have clapped for it. Instead he tilted his head, trailed his eyes up and down the man in a slow weighing of abilities. He already knew Jean was sinyei, but he was never one to discount the survival instinct on overdrive. It found the oddest of talents. Better to take a measure than be caught unawares.

In this case, though, as the boy turned back around and put both hands up saying, "Please, I don't--", he doubted even innate survival tactics were going to be any kind of obstacle. D'Grey sighed, as if disappointed. His eyes take on a strange hue, like he's wondering what Jean possibly thought he could say to him. It's the same reason he always laughs seeing a gun pointed at him -- or a claw drawn, a fang bared. What do you think you're going to do to me with that, _carino_? Change the world? At least Jean was making no attempt to be feral, surrounded as he is by real monsters.

On one knee, he balanced his blade. One look at that turned Jean to lean on the nearest end-table, as much distance between them as he could make. D'Grey made a derisive, small noise. There's so much disdain in it that with his face a momentary blank slate, the combination made Jean's stomach clench up and spew out more pleads. "D'Grey, je vous jure, s'il vous plaît ne me faites pas de mal..." the words were rapid, thick with emotion and defiance all at once. He finished the drink without a word. Then he waved his hand to gesture Jean should sit down. He's obeyed as if his hand tugged a string to marionette. Crossing the room, Jean's skin was pearling with sweat and breath. There's a distinct scent of blood under cologne. Whoever Eifel (D'Grey wouldn't credit Rober with making a shot after all) hit first had splashed a few droplets on him. For how faint the taste in his mouth, it couldn't have been much of a wound. 

"Seems your guard dogs are having a bit of trouble downstairs," D'Grey responded in French. Outside, where vampires and wolves were killing each other, he might have been listening to a football match -- but he'd learned politesse well. There's no need to be rude, so he offered misguided concern. There's a line in Jean's jaw that tightened, like he knew it was feigned and didn't dare contradict him. Pity. D'Grey knew Ansel -- and perhaps even Darrell Avenier, they were all on their basketball team in secondary -- had convinced him to turn evidence, but he'd always admired audacity. Buried it in the river outside, to be sure, but he admired it first. 

As if he heard the thought and was eager to please, Jean snapped back with a tiny bit of pressure against the couch to hold himself still. "A bit of trouble?" 

D'Grey offered his eyebrow.

"They're killing each other," Jean said, a weight on his voice. Then he heard what he said. A look in his eye appeared like his words were the bullets they hear echoed outside still and they just shot him instead. He looked -- anxious -- at the knife on D'Grey's knee, a shiver cold in his spine as he watched a thumb caress the face of it. Outside, there's another shout farther on, the sound of a car engine taking off. Ah, so at least one wolf survived and was off to tell Ansel, harried beyond thinking, so that he assumed Jean was already safe. 

The smile D'Grey offered was plastic ice; he seemed made of one of those instant-mix packets kids drink too fast, turning their tongue blue-green as they greedily suck the box dry until it's concave and misshapen. There's silence outside now. Fear and tears were frozen in Jean's eyes, and the man holding a blade looked at them contemplatively. What would that be like, he wondered, to still be so new to the knowledge people shot, killed, and died for you. It's queer. Maybe he knew his bodyguards well. When many fight and die for you, it's a statistic, but when it's just one lost life it's a tragedy. 

And, what about when it was one little brother locked up for a crime that saved the elder's life? What if it's a crime he never wanted to commit, a crime that rid the world of two brutes who killed without scruples for sport? What part of that was right? Tony prided himself on that -- a world of right and wrong, a system that "sucked sometimes" but at least "tried for justice" -- and still even he failed to make the case to him it was right he should be locked up. He could admit his guilt aloud, but not that it was justice locking him up. So it should come as no surprise to Jean that for D'Grey, when even his brother couldn't call something 'right', would do whatever he could to fix it. 

Hm. Considering the fear in Jean's throat and glare, he should give the man a little more regard. Surprised he wanted to kill him (his thumb bites into the blade) was one emotion he wasn't exhibiting. 

"Yes," D'Grey said. A speckle of scarlet lit up on his thumb. "They were killing each other." His anger flared in his throat as he watched Jean's eyes slide into gentle awareness, neatly slotting understanding over fear over hatred over a begrudging respect for him. It was satisfactory to see too wide eyes come to grips, he could delight in it somewhat.  

"What did you do to them?" Jean whispered, but that only widened D'Grey's smile. 

"I?" He asked, "I spoke to them. How could I have known a simple question would turn them murderous, or that a single piece of information spark such a, hm, delicious vengeance streak in your guard dogs? No one could know that would happen." 

There's a light in D'Grey's eyes as he looked at his own blade, a light that said clearly 'But I'm not no one, I suppose.' Fingers clench white as bone, gripped the hilt. He spoke now what was as much a reminder to himself as a lesson to the witness in front of him. 

"No no, see I made my brother a promise, Jean."

"What's that?" It's bit out. For a moment, the stubborn streak reminded D'Grey of Tony. His face softened. Then he stood up, trailing his fingers over the back of the arm chair as he rounded around, watched Jean slip back in the covers and imagined how he'd look in a purple bloom of bruises, red bruised lips, swollen tongue, and -- of course -- bleeding. Profusely. The violent image cast over his mind, a calming shroud. People were so much more malleable than you realized; breakable, capable of being guided and moved all manner of ways. 

"That I wouldn't kill you to get him out." 

Jean went stiff, a cloud of confusion cover his cheeks, his hands now fists on his thighs. Shrunk in the couch as he was, he didn't turn as D'Grey stalked behind the ratty thing with his lip bit in serious thought. 

"That you wouldn't..."

"Kill you." D'Grey repeated slower, words a twist to his smile. "Fewer things that disturb me more than a broken word, Jean, and I did give him mine." 

Tony had looked a tad bit desperate -- and more than a tad bit enraged -- when he made him promise. There'd been no asking, no begging, no pinky swear. All he said was an answer to the question D'Grey posed: if he had the witness responsible for his arrest, would he rip their hearts out? _No,_ Tony's voice might have cut the air, _and you won't either_. The demand burrowed under his skin, struck the practiced note between ire (don't you dare, not for me, stop killing to save me) -- and plead (don't do it again, not this time, _per favore, fratello_ , please). It made him itch. Licking the tiny drop off his finger, D'Grey rested the hand with the blade on the back of the couch, near Jean's neck. 

Now he's stiff for a different reason. 

"Course," D'Grey continued with a pursed, contemplative mouth, "he didn't say anything about hurting you." 

Another plead in French slipped out of Jean's lips; he wet them with quick flicks of a rabid pink tongue on the inside, a leaking pair of eyes on the outside. The knife pressed sharp on flesh, pressed deep metal near the carotid artery, pressed until a slow bubble of magenta graces the steel. Whimpers pepper his ears. The other hand he laid on Jean's opposite shoulder, stilling the trembles with a light squeeze and the shiver of a whisper, "Careful. You don't want my hand to slip." It's a promise. Another squeeze, then he cut lower, tip to the collarbone. It's quick, a jerk of the blade, but controlled. 

He walked around the couch. Eyes dark, it's hard to say which was more prominent in the gaze as D'Grey watched blood paint a smooth, straight line down his shirt, dribbling over onto his jeans: anger or hunger. This time the man said a quick prayer, bending forward and unable to keep himself from gripping at the wound, trying to press it closed. D'Grey let him, let him imagine a thousand threats, about the 'apology' he'd give his brother for his broken promise if his knife did slip and rip him open. Whatever Jean was thinking, it's almost certainly worse than threatening aloud could do. A shudder of pleasure slipped under D'Grey's skin as he considered it: shadowed eyes and a knife say things with sharp precision better than any words he might have given. Our nightmares are always the worst when dreamed up in our own haze, fingers clutching your own blood. 

"D'Grey," Jean muttered. Spittle spluttered out as he lifted a hand to his cheek, turning it with long fingers and a little pressure in the cleft of his chin until Jean looked him in the eye. His other hand traced the edges of the wound, coaxed out a few more drops of blood. It's siren's call is hot in his throat. Calm ill, D'Grey stilled to beckon the other man back to speech. 

"You can hurt me," Jean observed, "But I can't tell you anything, so."

So. There's a dart of his tongue over his lips again as he breathes in heavily, hot, bruises appearing where he's held. So, what? Just kill him? Was that truly all he had to say for himself? D'Grey's laugh was something incendiary and homicidal (or suicidal, but murderous anyway).

"Ansel doesn't share his plans?" 

Jean denied it with a quick head shake. He's trying in vain to get away from fingers that held him down with too much ease and strength inhuman, but he doesn't have the stamina to try long. Especially when his neck burned at the yank on his ripped skin. D'Grey watched, something close to pity in his gaze as he held on, unruffled. If apology is in his gaze, boredom is in his stance and hunger on his lips. 

"And even if he did --," Jean started.

"--you wouldn't tell me," D'Grey finished, bored. As he flexed his fingers on the man's cheek, a predator's stare keeping them fixed together, he thought of a man gripping a leather whip. He taps the flushed (so prettily) cheek; the wet skin, like echoing a snap. The man has to snap the whip to keep a savage beast back. Even when he's putting on a show to children with butter all over their fingers and lips, he keeps an eye on it. That's what filled the seats. The thrill comes from a hint -- a hint of danger, that something just might go terribly, terribly wrong.  

"No, I won't," Jean spat down, spraying his lap, spittle on top of the drying blood now and clenched fingers digging into the wound. He's glaring at D'Grey with full potency now, to his credit. For an instant, he even looked chastised, but then he licked his lips, eyes glinting with a red echo of the blood Jean's soaked his neck in. 

"Then why don't," There's a flash of silver; a pained gasp for an answer. "You tell me what you told him?" 

For a moment, Jean is still, like he doesn't know what he possessed to even offer, and wasn't sure if doing it would keep him from contamination. How much blood could a person lose before he bled out, he wanted to ask, wanted to plead, but the spindle work of bones inside his skin tremble and clack and clash, and they refused to let him keep begging. He did have some pride. Especially when it was useless; the man who held him might be half human, but good luck knowing it to see him now.

"I told him I saw your brother eat two people." 

It's blunt. D'Grey smiled, the bastard. There's nothing he liked more than winning. Except perhaps making that claim known, marking skin as his fingers tracing cheekbones as if he's trying to impress his fingerprints to him, a keepsake.

"And that I took a picture of it -- " Jean said, cheek turning away from the bruising fingertips, biting deep into his own bottom lip. 

" -- yes," D'Grey said, with something close to honest amusement and honey sweetness on his tongue, "that was particularly kinky of you. I approved, Jean." 

It's as biting as the knife is, apparently; his approval cutting deep into the man's bones and dug into the marrow to find old secrets, badly buried longings, if the shudder and glare was any indication. 

"Good for you," Jean gasped, "I took it because my friend asked me to look out for anything that might be covered up. It could help him." 

In November, D'Grey thought with a shock of coldness piercing his own spine. He took it in November. Ansel had been planning to abandon Hans since at least then. Old habits die hard, he supposed, though being human never really does. It took a great deal of energy to find his amusement this time, another blade flashing (though he only cut open the shirt, maybe nicked the skin in the drive-by) and another bruise. Tears slipped down Jean's cheek as he fought for breath. D'Grey simply bent his forehead to meet his, breathing hot, like he was offering it to him instead. 

"Help him..." He mused, "Yes. It did that. How much has your childhood friend told you, Jean?" 

He cut again, this time down the man's arm with the skill of a butcher. This time, the pained gasp was weak, lacking breath to properly fill the show of his terror. They both watch the blood pearl up like an elixir on the opened skin. D'Grey curved the arm to rest on his exposed chest, gently , both of their heartbeats leaping until the sound filled the room. 

"For instance," he spoke as he dragged the knife. "I assume he told you who it was you took the picture of." that wasn't an assumption, it was a fact. Tony never introduced himself with his last name; it had to be dragged out of him on casual social occasions, and to his relief most people didn't bother doing that. Why should it be different when he snapped, indulged? The act of drinking for them might mean different things but it was -- at least -- something they shared in being part of who they were. Getting closer to the _auter_ wouldn't mean he suddenly wanted people calling him 'D'Grey'. So, Ansel must have told Jean who it was. 

It explained a lot, actually, like why he'd kept quiet for two months.

"You told him you weren't going to be a witness against me," D'Grey guessed, but it was a smart guess as he leaned on the couch, and one Jean confirmed as he nodded against him, bone to bone, "And then he convinced you it was the right thing to do," it was hard not to scoff, "so, what I'd like to know, is if he left out exactly who the men were." 

Resting on one knee back, as he's using the other to wrestle Jean, his face was blank again, not giving so much as an eyebrow to explain what he meant. Jean was clouded and hazed in pain now more than confusion, but when he felt his arm moving, more tears spilled to stain his throat and he gasped 's'il vous plait' in spite of himself.

"Did he tell you they were killers and rapists, or did he leave that detail out?" D'Grey asked, but he only got another small head shake. Poor form, Ansel, leaving that rather significant detail out -- unless he was saying 'No' to him in general, the principle of the thing. A chill strikes his spine as he thinks the man's skin was burning up, fevered with the life he fought for. He hummed aloud, lifted a handkerchief to clean the tears off Jean's cheeks.

"He still ate them," Jean muttered, hot. 

As an answer, D'Grey removed his suit jacket first, for it was Brioni made, and after ten hours of being sewn by hand and forty two stages needed to iron it, hell would freeze before he got blood on it. Then he took the man's wrist, touch delicate, even reverent as he lifted it. It's limp as Jean struggled; now under one knee and his other hand, but he made the gesture of moving wrist to his mouth smooth and sure. Not a hair was out of place on his head, not a droplet on the collar of his suit. The first swallow was something of ambrosia to him, like cherry vodka and he savored the taste on the tip of his tongue, moan low, lingering in heat. He shivered, robbed of the warmth of his body and to D'Grey the shudder coursed through his, once, twice, like fuel before he bit down again. 

From there, he drank deep.

It doesn't take long before Jean's fallen unconscious; it takes a lot longer for him to pull out of the haze the bloodlust always brings on him. He's a creature of cuts and bruises and scraped knees and red lips even as a human, after all, the prey and the predator, ever a contradiction, ever living on a spectrum. But if he's a monster, it's an exquisite one, with pure ecstasy of life on his face, under his tongue and pupils exploded. Mouth stained, D'Grey dragged the back of his palm against it and rubbed hard like a boy cleaning strawberry syrup. The cold of his first breath without blood in a minute and a half angers him, dizzying the view until Jean was damn lucky he didn't rip blunt teeth back into fresh skin. 

But he -did- make his brother a promise (and maybe that's what makes him human too, not his mother.) 

"Actually," D'Grey whispered as if the thought yanked his thoughts clear, a hint of repentance in his voice as he cleaned the wound, cut off the bleeding with his handkerchief in a tight tie, "I made him two promises. I promised I wouldn't kill you," when he demanded it of him, "and I promised him I'd get him out." He can admit that, when Jean isn't listening, when he couldn't hear and wouldn't remember any of this anyway. 

"I can't let him rot there, Jean," he explained as he buttoned the man's shirt back up and slipped away from him. He's licking his lips, a drop of pure heat in his stomach with every hint of after taste, but he's telling the truth. He's changed faces like he would masks, reacting in a millisecond, one instant a worried brother, the next an unrepentant Capo, but in both instances he is, at least, wholly himself. 

D'Grey put his hand on Jean's forehead, then pricked his own fingertip and mixed his own blood into the cut highest on his throat. There's a strangled gurgle; a struggle for a flash of a second, a violent instant, and then nothing as Jean falls limp. Under his breath, he muttered words he learned from Harper. It had been months ago. See Ansel, he thought with a lilt of a tease, you might have been preparing in November, but I've been prepared for much longer than that. As the words slip from him, he's diving into the memories Jean expressed aloud until he's wiped every instant of him or his brother from them. D'Grey was always thorough, exacting. It was the man's memories that were the trouble, but once those were gone?  

Well, a gentleman would at least dial the emergency services before he slipped out the back door. He used Jean's phone after repairing it on the floor; didn't even have to worry about his voice. It's the latest thing! Text the  l'hospita l or  la policia , just send them a number and they'll know you're in danger, or that you're throat's closed up and you can't talk. D'Grey scrubbed DNA from the man and the scene with a mutter of a spell (well, and he took the bourbon bottle with him, so no need to take lips off that); cleaned his hands, put his winter gloves on before he pressed the buttons to alert authorities. 

Then he tossed the phone back to Jean on the couch and went through the back exit. He stayed just long enough to ascertain below both the bodies of Rober, bleeding on top of a wolf -- evidently both had killed each other. Then he nodded to himself; Eifel must have gotten away (but Ansel would take care of that for him), the other guard dog would be getting to Ansel soon. A twist of the braided bracelet on his wrist -- the one he wore right behind his watch, the one Tony taught him how to make -- and D'Grey walked out one door, only to reappear in another corner of the city. He stayed at that bar, sipping bourbon from a comfortable booth, even watched a football match. The red tinge to his lips must be lipstick, the waiter assumed as he gave him a high five; another gave him twenty euro after Bordeaux scored, another twenty when they won. Mates came, sat with him, chatted over scores and highlights, asked him where his girlfriend was. An hour passed, two, three. Then his phone rang. 

"Bonsoir, Lilly," D'Grey greeted. The two guys with him fell silent; Maxwell even leaned in to tell the girl on his lap that 'Lilly' was the current chief of the local branch for the  policia nacional , taking advantage of the moment to inhale a sweet blush. D'Grey winked at her, listening hard, not moving as Maxwell elbowed him for the wiggling eyebrows. His ears were glued to the mobile; tethered to the news she's delivering with a full, futile regret. Their witness statements were inadmissible and unreliable, their photo thrown out...it's cute, her telling him this like it was all news when even her next question made him think she was damn well aware he'd already known.  

To her question, he said only, "Watching Bordeaux kick ass, bar on fourth." She made a noise like she didn't believe him, but he could have ten witnesses in front of her swearing the same thing in ten minutes. 

"All charges dropped?" The echo aloud was for his companions benefits and the way they holler, you'd think everyone in the booth with him loved Tony as much as he did. A flutter of warmth in his chest was too real for a beat; alarming him. With an eyebrow lift and a flick of his hand, he quickly reinforced his position as the most popular man in the room as he offered to pay for everyone's drink in celebration. If they were going to cheer for it, they might as well do it in style (surely even Tony would agree with him for that).  At least he didn't have to tell her to let Tony know he'd be there to pick him up. His brother would already know that. 'You don't fail, you'll get me out', his brother had said, and he was right (it was aggravating, actually, how often Tony was, even if Daniella was probably right too that he should tell her more). 

Instead D'Grey smirked, tilted his head and said, smug with a rush of pleasure and triumph, "Lilly, of course I accept your apology, but it's not me you should say it to. Tell my brother, si?" 


	34. Great question. Does it have a great answer?

Amalie had told him with a phone call that their friend Jean had been admitted to the hospital. Having been in the middle of a meeting with his campaign managed and other associates, he hadn't gotten much out of her except a single explanation, verbatim: Jean was the witness in the D'Grey trial.

 

Darrell didn't miss the past tense, but remembered the news had been he was in the hospital, not that he was dead. He finished his meeting, trying not to appear harried and then took a cab to the hospital. Trying his cellphone again, all he got when he called Ansel was a busy dial.

 

Jean and he used to play ball in secondary and they were still good friends now, hanging out together every so often. It had been less and less now as he prepared for the mayoral run but Darrell always made time for his friends. This wasn't the first time he had made time to meet a friend at the hospital, and regrettably it wouldn't be the last.

 

Taking off his gloves as he stepped inside the hospital, he headed to the help desk and asked which room Jean was in. Directed to the fifth floor, he thanked the man for his help and walked around to the elevators.

 

"Daniella," he called as he saw her in the neighboring hallway. Her navy dress and dark hair made her the picture of mourning, were it not for bright eyes. One hand was running through her hair as she zips a coat up. His steps quickened until they caught up to her. Assuming they were here for the same reason, Darrell asked her about Jean.

 

"How is he?"

 

Wait. Those weren't bright eyes, those were wicked eyes. That was the look she gave him six years ago when she stole his binder so she could slip him Marjorie Rousseau's number surreptitiously. It only lasts a moment before she appears to cotton on to him. Then she's gone on her toes and hugged him, tightly. Darrell returns the hug, squeezing around her shoulders as he wondered about the shifting expression on her face before it was hidden on his shoulder. Even if he had managed to get a better look, Darrell doubted he could have gotten much out. 

 

"Should have known you'd be here," she muttered in her way, instead of 'thank you.' She holds tightly enough to worry, but let go just as fast. Her fingers adjust the lapel of her jacket, then (as if she can't help herself) the lapels on his. 

 

"As fast as I could," he nodded with a glance down as she straightened his jacket. It had only shifted a couple of inches at most with the hug but they were both of them but on public appearances. It was a crucial part of their careers after all. 

 

"Physically?" Daniella echoes with not undue scorn on her face, "Oh, just fine. Few cuts, few bruises, but all tended and fine." 

 

It was the tone of someone saying she'd had worse. Daniella trails a nail down her neck as she casts a glance back down the hall, taking her gaze from him. It scratches idly at a scar almost invisible, almost healed as she adds, "Jean's not in trauma, he's in the psych ward." 

 

"Yeah, I got that from being told it was the fifth floor." He pursed his lips, the only measure of his distress he would allow in public.

 

"So what happened?" He didn't ask if she knew what had happened, he asked her to tell him, because after knowing Daniella as long as he had (as much as he could manage at least), Darrell knew her to have the scoop even if it was his sister who was the reporter. (Amalie's tone on the phone indicated she knew what had happened as well, but couldn't talk about it).

 

"That's a great question," Daniella muttered, more to herself than to Darrell. Jean having witnessed Tony mid-feed was bad enough before you considered that he told someone about it. It seemed sure to her that he must have been put up to it, that he couldn't have gone straight to the police on his own. She didn't particularly like speculating where this train of thought naturally wound up. Darrell and Jean had been on the basketball team with Ansel, the werewolf who'd ousted Hans as Alpha and who Tony kept calling his arch nemesis. Apparently, that wasn't just because Stefanie slept with him too. 

 

"Does it warrant a great answer?" He asked, his eyebrows rising the more time she took in answering him. Normally that meant a person was getting prepared to lie to you. With Daniella it was more likely that she was getting ready to withhold truth she didn't believe you were privy to.

 

Rubbing thumb over the crease of her forehead, she looks back to Darrell finally feeling she wasn't giving anything away meeting him head-on. It was the best way to lie: tell the truth, leave one tiny part out, and look face-forward, head-on confident while doing it. 

 

"See, he can't tell you. He didn't know me, didn't know Lila -- she's still in there with him even still -- he...knows his own name, knows how to walk and talk, that's about it. I'd say at least ten years of his life are just -," Daniella waves her hand by her ear and frowns, chewing on her lower lip and wishing she had an actual lemon to swallow. That would be sweeter than the words she has to say now. 

 

"Gone. And what with the word of a psych patient with memory issues being worthless in court and Amalie's article breaking the chain of evidence..."

 

So Antonio was going to go free, that's what Daniella meant.

 

He passed a hand over his mouth as he processed the news. Jean's memory, almost entirely gone. If he didn't remember Daniella or Lila, he might not even remember Darrell, even though Jean met him before the girls. Attacked, because of what he knew. Darrell didn't need his friends in the police department to tell him who had the most probable cause.

 

Her stomach flips over and she stops talking. It was wrong she should be happy Tony could come home when this was the cost...yet she was, a little. Between that and Gabriel, there was a thrill in her, like something made of feathers that had caught her spine and kept trying to take off. 

 

"Let me guess," he gestures away from him, and ends up crossing his arms, "Despite the lack of wounds, he also lost a substantial amount of blood?"

 

Daniella stiffens to prevent a flinch. No, she wants to say. No, because Olivier was a gentlemen compared to Tony when it came to restraint. He had her (she scratches the scar once more, then pockets her hand quickly and brushes it against the envelope to reassure her); he didn't need to take anyone else's blood. 

 

It had to have been Olivier, after all. There were no reports of other bodies, no attacks, no other injuries -- yet it was foolish to assume Jean would have been alone. Without help, he'd never have been able to stay hidden this long in the first place. Who else but Olivier could have such a tight handle on what was reported? (Well, she knew she and Amalie hadn't done so already.) 

 

Her silence was deafening. He uncrossed his arms and put it in his pockets. He knew it was a sign of distress, of being jittery, but he didn't care because he *was* distressed. His friend was in a psych ward with no memory and Daniella was worried about word choice.

 

She couldn't say no, though, because she'd seen Jean's arms and she'd read the hospital chart. It wasn't even intentional, exactly. The medical records were taped to the bottom of his bed and the nurse was looking the other way. Reflex, she figured, to steal the chart and peruse rather than ask a medical professional. They sugarcoat things horribly, or they cut straight to asking you for permission to cut open. Even Gabriel admitted his predilection as a surgeon was always to just fix the problem at it's root. 

 

"He lost...a not insubstantial amount of blood," Daniella compromised. Her problem at that moment was she knew the root cause and was kind of sort of sleeping with him. 

 

Darrell scoffed, and he might have laughed even though there was nothing humorous about this situation in the slightest because her response was as unbelievable as it was typical Daniella. Rain, sleet, snow, or shine, some things just stayed the same.

 

"To go along with his not insubstantial amount of memory lost?" He couldn't help but to ask rhetorically in a snappy tone.

 

"He'll be fine in a couple of days, blood replenishes --," Daniella starts.

 

"Where's your mind at Daniella? Because it's not with Jean."

 

Just as quickly as she heard herself begin a defensive retort, she stopped. The time she didn't bother restraining the flinch. Her hand falls back out of her pocket as she looks each ways, ensures the snippy busybody Nurse Doris was minding her own business and then meets Darrell's eyes again. There was pain there echoed in her gaze, but also an accusation. He had it easy, she thinks briefly, being righteous right now was easy compared to the war in her head. Maybe she should go back to Gabriel and ask for a few pills for migraines for herself too.

 

"It is with Jean," she insists, leaning over and taking his wrist to tug him hard into the nearby waiting room when Doris looked over. Pay no attention to his being twice her build at least.

 

He followed, pulled along by Daniella into a more private area after locking his eyes on hers as she searched for words again. Lord only knew what Dani was thinking, but it was probably a thousand things at once going at a million miles an hour. All of them sure to upset him.

 

"It's just, with the whole situation," she says in a lower voice, amazed how irritatingly quiet this hospital was considering all the clandestine operations going on within it, and what not. "As in, as I'm sure Amalie's probably mentioned, I've --" her voice catches before she continues wholehearted, "--I was with D'Grey last night, and I'm a little thrown off now thinking I woke up in bed with a man who went and did this to my friend, okay? Just, give me a second to process it, please!"

 

Whoops, that was louder than she meant it to be. 

 

If he wasn't mistaken, Darrell felt like she was a step away from causing a scene, a step he was maybe 80% certain she wouldn't take. Not to mention, trying to illicit some understanding out of him. Maybe it was because it did involve D'Grey, but Darrell was having a difficult time believing she was sincere.

 

"You know perfectly well who you were getting in bed with, Dani, better than anybody, so if you haven't taken the second to process it already, you've lost your touch."

 

Better than anybody. The words seemed to take a moment to settle, a brand she didn't know how to wear properly yet was undeniably true. It seemed a dark, shameful thing she should be pinning to her chest only in shadows, to know Olivier D'Grey as well she claims. Yet fond of the darkness as she was, half in love with moonlight since she was old enough to read by it, she still wished she could be proud of it. At least, as proud as she had been that morning. 

 

Both hands run through her dark waves of hair and then fall again as she admits, "I knew he'd go after the witness, yes. But to take Jean's blood..." Darrell wasn't going to go near how casually Daniella said she knew D'Grey was going to go after the witness. Troubling enough, that's wasn't the most problematic thing here.

 

Looking down at her toes as she contemplates, she feels like she'd been dragged to the principals office when it wasn't her fault. Daniella had never been a snitch when it came to those she was loyal to, but these...were difficult people to remain so loyal to when they offered her none of the same courtesy in return. After all, she didn't see Olivier asking her about Amalie the way he'd apparently questioned Stefanie about Ansel. 

 

The 'why' of it vexed her. It couldn't have been to scare Jean, considering the man couldn't remember any threat. It wasn't pure need - she'd offered to him half a dozen times the last three weeks only to be refused on principle. He was scared he would hurt her, she'd thought, considering he'd come close when infuriated at his brother. 

 

...but, he wouldn't have been afraid he might accidentally kill Jean, would he? Daniella's tooth almost draws blood from her lip at the chilling thought. 

 

"Fine, I've processed it, no need to be rude by the way," she says by way of apology, "I only mean...to say my mind is on the whole situation because I'm guilty, and ashamed, and angry, and hurt, and I shouldn't be, because you're right, I do know him - but I am, because I thought I knew him better."

 

Darrell pursed his lips again and nodded slowly. He could understand thinking you knew someone better than you thought you did. His hand in his pocket played with the hold button of his cellphone, as if he could make it ring. 

 

"I apologize for being rude," he said first, softer than before even though compared to how rude they've been to each other before, this was nothing. Daniella lifts the corner of her smirk, as if to say she knew what he was thinking, and agreed. It was a common look on her face, even when the other person hadn't the foggiest idea what was on her mine (usually true).

 

"It's not your fault, I shouldn't take it out on you."

 

"No you shouldn't." Letting her bottom lip pop out after chewing it, she let out a sigh and balled up one fist to swat his shoulder, swaying with it. Darrell chuckled, leaning back with the punch.

 

"And...neither should I. Sorry, Darrell. It's me I'm mad at." 

 

Maybe even more than she was mad at Olivier. After all, he'd been swearing up and down he was going to get Tony out - this was an elegant, easy way to do it. It wasn't Olivier's fault he kept his promise, and it wasn't Darrell's fault she'd gone and slept with D'Grey. That wasn't anyone's fault in the first place; it was her choice, buggered and crazy as it was. Her fist comes back down to swing at her side and she twists, noticing the coffee pot as if for the first time. Sure, she probably didn't need more caffeine, but it was hot, and bitter, and both things were welcome company. Turning to pot on next to the little water cooler, she leans against the warm Britta tank as she continues speaking, dazed.

 

"You know my Dad's back in Paris." She said. "He came back because he saw a photo of us at dinner in the paper. Not to say hello, not to ask after Cole, not to congratulate Lila on university, or me on my promotion, or Noah on his design being approved -- nope. He came back to chastise me for my choice of bed mate. As if D'Grey would be what he is without my father's interference in the first place." 

 

Darrell nodded again, not because he knew Ryan Faye in the slightest besides some brief mentions by Amalie every once in a while, but because despite the obvious unnatural aspect of it (you know, the mob and the vampires), it was common for parents to show more attention when they thought you were doing something wrong. Their father had called Amalie for the first time in weeks when he read her article.

 

"Interference?" Darrell asked curiously, catching that choice of words curiously.

 

"Should I bother asking you to elaborate?"

 

There's a violent twist to her violet lips. Batting shadowed eyes at him, she yanks the presto-instant-Keurig pack down with nails sharp enough to bite even the cardboard. Last night they'd been digging in to skin. It was with a wry sort of amusement she thinks, at least she left a few marks on him too. Maybe even more than he'd left on her.

 

"Are you bothering?" Daniella echoes sweetly, ripping the package open and throwing the torn paper into the little wicker basket they provide. She had two, just in case Darrell had wanted one too. She wouldn't answer the unasked question, as obvious as his inference was. 

 

Darrell laughed and then rubbed his mouth again, grinning for a moment before he shook his head. No, he wasn't going to bother asking. He didn't want to give her another excuse to lie to him. Daniella tilts her head as she contemplates telling him irregardless, then turns back to the coffee.

 

"You can tell your running a campaign, your mind is all set is on the propriety of things first, the heart of them second," She comments, tipping the powder into the top of the maker and looking for the silver handle, "not that I disapprove. Quite the opposite." 

 

Tony might be a hypocrite, but she strove not to be. 

 

"If heart was all it took to win in politics, far better men would be in positions of power." Sad but true, as it was something Daniella knew very well as a publicist. It wasn't surprising that she approved, well didn't disapprove, as she did it for a living. She smiles at him. It wasn't a very comforting smile, all present circumstances considered, but it was genuine enough. 

 

"And women," she comments idly, picking out a stirrer as she turned the pot on. 

 

"And women," Darrell agreed with a nod.

 

The machine started whirring, providing a comfortable enough noise for her to be convinced no one would easily overhear them. It's not as if she was going to be letting out state secrets here (ever); and Olivier's past wasn't as secretive as he pretended it was. Or, rather yes it was, but he had less control over her father than his father'd had...and she wouldn't be standing here if his father had his way.

 

"Congratulations on your promotion, by the way," he smiled, "remind me to toast you again when we have something better than hospital coffee."

 

"Merci," she says with the smile widening, taking sugar down from the top. The thought of her job in the context of this conversation was enough to need it, no matter how she usually liked coffee bitter. With the machine still whirring, she relents long enough to say quieter, "Not to bother you," ha, "but...what I meant, was...D'Grey's mother took him when he was still just a baby away from his father. Lasted all of six months I think, because Daddy Dearest took him back. Well, I say Daddy dearest."

 

"Damn," was all Darrell said at first as he processed the information and stored it.

 

She shuts the pot off, turning to pour Darrell's first, then her own. Lifting the cup to her lips, she waits until she's blowing on the hot liquid with her breath mixing steam to finish the thought.

 

"Remington sent my own after his son. As my mother was pregnant with me, he wasn't exactly about to risk anything, was he? He found him, brought him back." 

 

Daniella pats her nails on the rim of the cup, then takes a hefty gulp. 

 

With the styrofoam cup to his own lips, he blows on the coffee. One would think that his career path had accustomed him to drinking coffee but he more often than not he still burned his tongue.

 

After successfully managing a sip, more bitter than he was used to, he brought the cup down. He was smiling, amused despite that they were in a hospital five stories under their friend Jean who was attacked for being at the wrong place at the wrong time and daring to come forward. 

 

"I know you don't believe in fate, Dani," not in the conventional sense anyways, "but that sounds pretty fateful." He smirked, half teasing her. 

 

Thank you, Ryan Faye.

 

"Oh shove off," Daniella teased right back, but she smiled. Her elbow bent and pushed at the air beside them. That way he would actually sway. Daniella thought highly of herself, but she wasn't fool enough to pretend to think she could actually move him. 

 

He was right though. There was a certain element of fate in their meeting, if you considered her doggedly tracking him down with utter determination to better him and herself to be 'fate'. Somehow she didn't think that qualified. Still, Darrell didn't miss the mark, for there certainly felt like some kind of polar opposite magnetic attraction going on here. 

 

(Though when it came right down to it, were they really so different?)

 

"Actually yes," Daniella says suddenly, cheerfully, "there you go, that's why I slept with him. It was fate." She throws hands up, even the one holding the styrofoam although that one she held a little tighter. 

 

Darrell laughed. It was once, it wasn't loudly, but he did laugh. If there ever was a more ridiculous idea for Darrell it was the notion that Daniella had no say in what she did. 

 

"Not my fault, I had no choice!" She teases back, unable to keep a straight face through the absurd statement. Of course, maybe she didn't want to joke about this. Olivier may never have forced her in a million years, but how many people would have believed her when she said so? Especially as there was no way Jean consented to giving blood, and was that really so different?

 

Daniella downs another heavy gulp and just like that her throat is burned raw, cup empty. Contrarily, Darrell still nursed his own coffee, barely two sips empty.

 

"I don't know Darrell," she says quieter (it hurt to talk on her throat, okay?), "I don't even know where to begin. Tony isn't a bad...guy, okay? Most of what he's told me is in confidence but you do trust me, right?"

 

Darrell raises an eyebrow.

 

Daniella looks at him, eyes wide, knowing it was a fool who trusted her most of the time ...but never Darrell. 

 

"Because...the bloodlust, he was born with and he hates it, -hates- it, he's been scared of it and his shadow since he was fifteen. Not to mention his father hated him. Imagine that, being hated by someone who is supposed to love you, look out for you, and why? Because you don't want to join his mafia gang or be a vampire? Hated because you don't like hurting people, don't want to kill anyone? And he can never get away from it! His brother keeps him tied to it with a bleeding death grip -- even when he gets him out, he goes and does this to do it!? It's so...wrong. Just...wrong."

 

Same brother she was dating and sleeping with, was the response he chose to keep to himself. He had promised to stop being rude after all, and he was more than capable of being perfectly diplomatic.

 

"Look, Dan," he dodged another elbow for using the nickname he gave her to annoy her when she was only thirteen, "it's not like I have that huge a moral ground to stand on." Aside from the fact that he hadn't killed anyone.

 

"I have nothing against Antonio," so far but the man had been the target of his little sister's recent article and consequently had been sleeping one less hour a night, "Antonio didn't put my boy in the hospital without his memory and full blood supply." And Antonio wasn't the one who had a vice grip around almost every single government institution in Paris making the city one of the most corrupt in Europe. But he didn't need to tell Daniella that.

 

Oh yeah, that ‘I have nothing against Antonio’ could only have been followed by a ‘but’ the size of the city they discussed, but Daniella just zips her lips. They had enough to discuss without seeking out…yet more trouble, she thinks. 

 

"But you're telling me this because you're glad your friend is getting out of jail, despite the fact it was at Jean's expense. Is that it?"

 

Yeah, that was it. That was why she was frowning, it was why she definitely wishes she nursed the coffee more, that was why her head hurt and heart ached (or was that the other way around?) Instead of admitting any of this aloud, though, she bit down on her tongue again until it ached in a way Olivier would appreciate. 

 

“No, it’s not despite the fact it’s at Jean’s expense,” she settles, “it’s both. It’s not like I’m ignoring that, it’s not like I’m not furious at that, I’m both furious and happy. Elated and miserable. Enraged and delighted. It’s…headache inducing is what it is.” 

 

Darrell was getting a headache just listening to it.

 

And despite the fact she was still irritated from him calling her ‘Dan’, she laid that head right back down on his shoulder and shut her eyes tightly. It was too white in this hospital, too bright. How could anyone relax, or rest here? That’s what a hospital was supposed to be for, wasn’t it? Daniella blew out hard to chase hair strands off her face as they fall with her. 

 

“It was easy when I didn’t know he had sons,” she murmurs, “Easy to hate him. And now somehow I hate Remington all the more, and -still- am compromised emotionally. If I was on the Enterprise I’d have to let Kirk take over right about now. And I’ve never given up being Captain in my life!” 

 

Darrell smirked at the metaphor, both because he was a fan of Star Trek and because he had also used a captain metaphor beforehand, many times. Thankfully he wasn't emotionally compromised. He was only more certain of himself in this situation maybe because for him, it had never been about hate. The fact that Daniella wasn't certain however was bordering on frightening.

 

"No First Officer on deck, Captain Daniella. But you've got another captain with his own starship to assist you, whenever you want it," he rubbed her shoulder in the brief comfort she would allow him to give her. She answers him with a small smile, eyes still shut tight.

 

"I mean, you know, I'm shooting for Admiral or Commodore now, but the sentiment stands." He grinned. 

 

Daniella laughs, finally letting her eyes open as she looks up at him. Damn, that boy could smile. He had a smile that made you want to trust him, believe in him and believe in yourself too. Sometimes she thought she could look at it all day. No wonder he was in politics. 

 

Rubbing her head against his neck twice before she lifts off, Daniella nods at him, "Then I just get a whole fleet to back me up, I like it." 

 

Too exhausted to even bother to keep standing, she finally tossed the cup and swiveled to sit against the plastic bench things the hospital pretended were acceptable seats for a waiting area. Giving up in two seconds, she swivels to lift her dress over her knees as she brings them up and rests back on the wall, elbow into her knee. 

 

"Thanks for not telling me I have to end things with him," she says finally quietly, "I already know it and don't want to at the same time. But.. still. I appreciate that you didn't patronize me, Darrell." There was a beat. "Use of 'Dan' excepted, obviously."

 

Maybe if she had some sign Jean would get his memory back or something, then she could be happy for Tony in peace again. In the meantime, she needed a Midol, or a stiff drink, or...well, good sex (ay, there's the rub.)


	35. "You Put Him In There, Didn't You?"

Oh happy, glorious, day! Her platonic soulmate and letter-lover was finally out of jail/back from the war! What an excellent time to be alive! Tonight, tonight, Paris made sense again as the city of love. There was so much of it going around at the moment in her life that she wanted to hold her arms out and spin; let love lift her up where she belonged, all that jazz. Sure, it was temporary, sure, she had no idea the legal debacle that had happened to get him out but she was finding that she didn't care (and that if she didn't know about it, she didn't have to lie about it). Oh joyous night, oh marvelous-  
  
The record playing in her head started skipping. It sang the lyrics 'I want to know what love is' over and over again, until finally the needle scratched the record into an abrupt halt (wait, was that how record players worked? Irene had never even owned a CD player). The source of this mental interruption? None other than resident alpha and Parisian James Dean, Ansel Dorat. Apparently, love was not in the air for him tonight. Sitting at a bar, throwing down a shot, he looked oddly (and deceptively) human. Just human.  
  
Oh hot Italian men in my life forgive me, she thought as she took a deep breath before plunging into the stormy waters of a typhoon personified.  
  
"Well, this looks like a wallow," Irene declared as she stepped next to the bar, leaning her elbow on the counter half for support in her five inch celebratory heels, "directly at the bar, unaccompanied," she looked around quickly to see if she recognized any wolves she had the displeasure of meeting from his pack, "shot glasses, yep, I'm calling it. You're wallowing."   
  
Having heard her (he'd know that perfume and rapid heartbeat anywhere) come in, a gentle smirk lifts his lips as Ansel listens to her approach. After her opening line (and a general side-glance over her with bemusement and maybe a hint of pride), he chuckles. Then lifts the shot glass, snapping ring finger and thumb behind it and tosses back.   
  
Gasp quick and pleasant (he only does cold shots, the only way to truly burn -- well, when you're a werewolf), he turns to her.   
  
"Bet myself if you'd actually come talk to me or not," he explains as he nods to the empty glass. The corner of his mouth perks as he gestures an open palm to the seat, "And what a pleasant surprise. But wallowing, Irene? What cause do I have to be miserable? It's a happy day. Not everyday justice is given up for gold or fear -- oh, hold up, this is Paris, yes it is. But hey, you and I both know if it wasn't I wouldn't be sitting here, so, to Paris, mm?"  
  
Her mouth opened in a barely audible (well to human ears apparently) 'ah' as she looked at the empty shot glass and then back to him, unsure of whether he had own or lost the bet there. She supposed in some ways it was both.  
  
Then she looked at the bar stool right next to her and deliberated. Sitting down would mean admitting that she planned to have a long enough conversation, which she technically did, plan on it that was but she didn't need to let -him- know that. Then again rejecting the seat would be rude, and her feet wouldn't thank her later when she'd need to soak them in hot water and massage them all by her lonesome. On the other other hand, it was just a bloody seat.  
  
"Vive Pari," she said in best French (which was dismal, grotesque, really) and then shook her head in an incredulous chuckle as she quickly realized what this was about.  
  
She set her sparkly clutch purse on the counter and tilted her head as she looked at him, "This is about Tony getting out of prison, isn't it?" Irene would get why he was upset but drinking it away?  
  
"I thought someone had died."  
  
"Uh oh. Careful, Rene, I can see the spinning wheel in your thought bubble from here."   
  
Chuckling amiably (and a bit relieved, but don't tell her that) as she sits down, he signals the bartender for another round -- and another glass, as he wasn't rude (or rather, not as rude as people think he is). Of course he's going to share. Misery loves company, yadda yadda, people love the people (the truth of that is so laughably simple it is ridiculous).   
  
Tilting his head as he laughs again at her astute observation, he points out easily, "Well, someone did die. Two someones, as it happens, but ah," his hand flaps it off, "who cares, they were criminals themselves, and oui, Tony didn't have control right? So in some ways, I'm celebrating because if he can't be held accountable well...Rene, you know my story."  
  
That strikes through his own thoughts like a knife. Smile softening as he considers that, eyebrows furrowing, he leans harder, elbow into the wood.  
  
"You _do_ know my story. Aren't you going to get in trouble if your friends and boyfriend know you willingly approached me? Hm. Need me to kidnap you? I can do that, well actually no, turns out I can't do that but still, if you need an alibi I am happily willing to oblige."  
  
Okay, sitting down and talking to him was one thing, drinking with him was an entirely different one. When that glass got there she would just have to very politely decline or just toy around with the glass a little, the same way she did with food when she wasn't hungry (or had eaten too many carbs that day). Lord knew how bad she got when shots were passed around, and she realized that one of them had to be sober because that wasn't going to be him.  
  
The corners of her lips flicked up in growing amusement as she watched and heard him ramble through a bitter (heart-wrenching) explanation and then through questions and an offer, a small smirk on her face by the end it that she did a poor job at hiding.  
  
"Are you drunk?"  
  
"If by drunk you mean I am have imbibed too many spirits and upset the balance in my bloodstream a medical sense then, no," Ansel smiles and unfurls his hand next to his mouth as if to 'hide' what it is he was saying, stage-whispering, "wolf-blood, and what not, makes it difficult."  
  
Although clearly it wasn't impossible. Hadn't he challenged Antonio on this once before, come to think of it? Asked him if they ought to try out wolf and hybrid tolerance? Hilariously, it likely didn't matter what they did -- Tony had no control, and he refused to let go of it.  
  
"On the other hand if you meant," he drops his hand back to take the approaching glass, "merci, dah-ling -- if you meant I am under intoxication, then yes, I am. From the alcohol, the news and now, your presence. Just do tell me if your boyfriend's about to barge in here and challenge me to a duel," he makes a show of sighing as he teases. Then he lifts a finger, now on the new shot, tapping the rim.   
  
"I will of course be willing to partake in such a duel, but, shouldn't want to embarrass him."  
  
Irene scoffed, a little laugh attached to it, "You're drunk." Wow, this was an unexpected sight. It made it all too easy to forget that while she had forgiven him and they, meaning him and her and no one else because everyone else was busy holding grudges and rightfully so, were no longer at odds, that didn't make them buddies again.  
  
Well easy to forget until Ansel reminded her of Dillon and accepting duels. Oi vey. She almost took that shot that had been served to her right then, but quickly pushed the notion out of her mind.  
  
"Dillon knows perfectly well I can take care of myself so if there is a need of a duel, I shall be the one challenging. Until I break a nail, then I reserve every right to call on my champion," she nodded once, as if her word was law. Well, at least if it there was any place where that would be achievable it would be Paris.  
  
"You didn't honestly think Tony would stay locked up, did you?"  
  
If she wanted to believe he was drunk and therefore it excused the need for him to make a show of kidnapping her (was that insensitive?) -- okay, maybe he was a little drunk. Actually, his mind felt crystal clear, sharp and prickly on the edges like every thought he had was as likely to rip a hole through his skull as being worth speaking aloud.   
  
But he clears his throat, nods smiling, "Fair enough. Though I don't know if you've heard but," he murmurs under his breath, "Paris is fairly lawless."  
  
Which brought them all the way around back to their (her) initial point of contention: Antonio's miraculous and utterly inevitable escape from jail.   
  
"On the contrary," he says genially, "I was pleasantly surprised how long he did. D'Grey's slipping. His father'd have had him out in two hours. Well," Ansel tilts his head as he considers it, swirling the liquid as if vodka held fascination in it's depths, "he'd have had Olivier out in two hours. Tony might have taken a week."  
  
It was a very orderly city for being so lawless. Would she be correct in classifying that as ironic? She didn't really know how to use that word accurately, maybe half of the time she did. Either way, it was sad. Hard to imagine that Ansel actually had the moral higher ground in this situation. Here she was after all, celebrating a man getting away with murder.  
  
Except no, it wasn't a man it was Tony, and it wasn't murder because he didn't mean to or willfully plan it. So there.  
  
"He didn't deserve to be in prison for that, Ansel," she shook her head and then added softer, "The same way you didn't deserve prison for Colette."  
  
Now she did pick up the little glass, but took just a sip, juuuust a sip. Couldn't hurt.  
  
"You put him in there didn't you?"  
  
Yeah, well maybe he didn't and -- hmmm, he forgot what he was about to say, distracted. Amazing how reciting just one name could lower his spirits. Or in this case, it was about to raise his, as he lifts his glass up high to sip with her. Not as impressive as downing it, but he has a strange feeling she'd leave when drinks were done.   
  
He'd hate that.  
  
A-ha! Oh, Irene, she truly was cleverer than most (himself included) ever had given her credit for. Turning his head as if to forcibly repress a smirk, he looks at her sideways as he sets the glass back down.  
  
"Now how could I have done that? I have it on very good authority he was arrested through proper channels. Are you suggesting the Parisian police take orders from outside their hierarchy, dah-ling?"  
  
Ansel wiggled his eyebrows.  
  
Well, that was a yes. Rolling her eyes, Irene looked around her momentarily, her fingers tapping against the counter, itching to grab a hold of something when ha, there it was. Reaching over, she grabbed the paper wrapper of a straw that had been discarded, rolled it up into a little ball and then flicked it at his face with her fingers.  
  
"What in the bloody fuck were you thinking?!" It seemed a nicer question than what the bloody fuck was wrong with him, especially when she was one of the few people on this earth who knew the answer pretty accurately.  
  
"Have you changed your name to Austin Powers or have you always liked to live dangerously? That is so imbecilic-," she dropped her voice, leaning in, but her words had lost none of their sharpness, "surely, there are more covert ways to try and take down the cartel, ways that don't get my platonic soulmate thrown in jail! Or killed!" She brought a finger between then, pointing at the space between his eyes.  
  
"You're right, you should drink. Here," she slid him her lipstick-marked glass towards him, "have mine too because you've just painted a target on that stupid chest of yours, and everybody else following you. Your political friend, Tiny Mali too I expect by the sound of that article -granted, I needed an app to translate so I think it lost some of its kick but I got the gist! You- ughhhh." She narrowed her eyes at him, glaring.  
  
Taking the glass she slid him, it took Ansel a few moments to listen as he was too busy assuming she was judging him and you know, downing the shot. When he let the glass click back to the counter he was in time to hear 'painted a target' and he sighs, shrugging halfways with his shoulder. Then he stops, letting his eyes track around the bar that they weren't being overheard, mutters 'merci' under his breath and gets an inch closer.   
  
"I was thinking, dah-ling," his lips curl with the soft admittance, "that once upon a time your 'platonic soulmate' was quite capable of controlling himself and spent frankly his entire teenage life convinced he would one day 'save' his brother. I was thinking, that with the ahem, comment dites-vous --," he waves his hand, "proper motivation, he might be more willing to talk some sense into his dear elder brother. No, I didn't  think he would stay locked up, what I counted on was the pure, simple fact that if enough evidence stacked up, D'Grey would do something terrible to get him out."  
  
He takes a sip of her shot, a tongue darting out to lick his top lip before his smile tightening.  
  
"And I was right. I didn't have the target on my back or Amalie's, who by the way is probably as tall as you without those heels," just an aside, because he'd cringed hearing yet another short joke, "but there was one formerly on my old friend Jean. He saw what Tony did. Being a witness against D'Grey wasn't exactly a safe place to be, but when he came to talk to me about it, he said you know, he wanted to come forward. He didn't want to be someone else keeping another terrible secret about D'Grey. So he came forward and now," he lifts her shot again to toast her with it, "he hasn't the faintest idea who he is."  
  
Tossing the rest of the shot back and sliding it across the counter, the glass squeaks uncomfortably high in his ear. Regarding it, his thumb tapping on the counter, he takes a few moments before casting jade eyes back up to her, lingering a moment too long on blonde curls before meeting blue eyes.   
  
"The Detective did her job. Darrell is running for office without bribing anyone. Amalie told the truth; see, she's exceptional at that. And she and they, are as sick as I am of Paris sucking the life out of you, if you'll pardon the pun." He smiles a bit, enjoying it himself. A few tables over, he could whispers crawling up someone's neck that make him certain he's no longer completely private. But oh, how shocking, D'Grey has spies.  
  
"But why Irene, could you possibly be expressing concern for my well-being?"  
  
"Well look at you, what a helper, how much concern amidst all that bullshit manipulation," she sighed and shook her head, now officially bummed. So much for the wings that love gave her to lift up where she belonged. She was fighting against a riptide now, and would better appreciate if love would be so kind as to provide scuba gear.   
  
Irene shrugged, going for nonchalant but arrived instead at irritated, "So your brilliant plan was to push Olivier to do -more- bad things? Really? I need a drink."  
  
She raised her hands as Ansel came to Amalie's defense, a bit surprised that he chose to focus on that even briefly, and therefore amused, but also...not. It was weird, and there were more important things to talk about right now! Still, she did have to set him straight on that.  
  
"No, I'm definitely at least two inches taller and two inches makes all the difference." Hey-oooh! Alright, back to your regularly scheduled freak-out.  
  
She sighed learning about the fate of Jean the witness, now definitely needing a drink. Rubbing her forehead with the back of her hand, she quickly stole the shot that had been poured for Ansel and downed it herself.  
  
Muttering under her breath things like 'oh yes fantastic job', and 'exceptional, wow', Irene suddenly stops doing so for a small chuckle at that horrible pun. She didn't laugh because it was funny, she was laughing because it was sad, and true. Definitely not funny.  
  
Caught, Irene didn't even notice that she had been coming across as a concerned party. Rather than let him make a big deal out of it and build something in his head that wasn't true, in the slightest, Rene answered him outright.  
  
"Because, moron, I'm a decent fucking person and I don't want you to get killed."  
  
Swallowing back at her correction he decided quickly to let her have the last word (because that was the important part of what he'd said?), and then cocks his head.   
  
"In my defense," he says raising a finger, "I am fairly  sure anything I do would be responded to by 'D'Grey doing more bad things.'" Bah, Olivier, he didn't understand why she was saying his name. Did she just want to prove she knew it? It amused him to no end that people thought they didn't -- he was D'Grey, he embodied that name by choice, everyone in -France- knew his real name.   
  
Surprise lifts his face, eyes a shade lighter at the weight behind her snap. Irene looks like a fiery beacon when she does that, all blazing blonde and brutal. Blinking to clear his mind of the image, he smiles again, honest.   
  
"Touched as I am, Irene, and," he leans over, hand darting to place over hers on the counter as he steels breath and body to swear, "I am, vraiment touche -- this isn't about my life. This is about making my life, such as it is, matter."  
  
Eyes searching hers as he swears this, he'd never admit to his little desperation she understand why this matters, why this was important. Merci, he could drown in those eyes (oh hell, wonderful cliche, he really never did have Hans' talent at words).  
  
Then he looks at their joined hands.   
  
Why oh why had she chosen to get involved in this whole debacle? She was English, let the bloody French handle their own bloody business but no! Now she was here, the D'Greys on one side and Ansel on another and then there were a million different sides inside those two sides alone so really it was a whole mess that was going to give her ulcers or worse back acne.  
  
Surprise flickered over her face as he reached for her hand, placing his palm over it, covering it almost completely. You never knew what you were going to get with Ansel. On one hand, she still sported a dent. On the other, moments before the dent, his hands were nothing but gentle as he played with her hair. On the other other hand, Rory's grip still wasn't the same. On the other other other hand- well, you got the point. It was a coin toss.  
  
Irene swallowed at his explanation, her eyes holding his gaze until she found herself nodding slowly. Exhaling silently, she thought about what that would mean and more importantly her fear that he would go about it the wrong way because plainly he didn't know any other way. A man was already without his memories (minus a million points for Olivier, Nadia would be so devastated if she found out- first hand experience with memory loss after all), and this, in retrospect, was nothing major.  
  
"Ansel," she sighed briefly, biting on her bottom lip, "even if you do manage to make Paris your home again, will it be worth everything you're prepared to lose? Keeping this up, there will be more than just Jean's memory listed as a casualty."  
  
She pulled her hand away when she noticed they were still joined and then added as if it were an afterthought of an unpopular opinion, "And for the record, your life already does matter. So try not to be careless with it because you know," she sniffed, "I'll kill you with a weapon forged in caring. No big deal, just fair warning."  
  
Ansel's hand retreats clean off the counter, a quick dart as if sparked as hers does and drops to his lap -- but he keeps his eyes on hers making no further comment. The pulse resonating in his chest told a different story, but thank heavens Irene couldn't hear it. He furrows his brows together, wanting to meaningfully evaluate her point even if he found it a bit of -- well, grand statement. He can't blame her (must remember that she is only sixteen) for the simplification. Yet, how arrogant was it for him to presume full responsibility for Jean's loss? Jean came to him asking how he could come forward and D'Grey took his memory; Ansel knew he was the spark, but he couldn't curb acting on Paris' behalf on supposition of sacrifices (sacrifice, noun, here a placeholder to be filled in at a later date).   
  
"I appreciate the caution." He says with a small nod, before adding, "Yet...yes, I do think it worth casualties, and if that is arrogant, well, I learned from the best."  
  
He wonders briefly where Hans even is as he pulls back to go for his original half-drunk shot to finish it -- then hurriedly puts it from his mind. Lips flicking up again after a small gasp, he nods in silent acceptance of her 'weapon of caring'. When he speaks again, his tone is lighter.  
  
"How are your friends doing, by the by? I'm just...curious, although I only met Eliza the once it was in...ahem, awkward circumstances."  
  
Irene supposed thinking anything were worth casualties was just something she would never understand. And yeah, maybe she was being a bit melodramatic but apparently it was a war in this city! That's how her group of friends chose to describe it- war. How was she the dramatic one here? Not paying attention to the fact she had just told Ansel she would smite him with a weapon forged in caring, that was just besides the point.  
  
"Pretty good," she answered with a nod, surprised he would ask, "Eliza's still in Paris, working here, dropped out of school. Bit sad about it but alas, if you love someone set them free, all that jazz. Nadia's doing well, bit grumpy, magic overload she's working on. Reid's adjusting to wolftitude and Alisha's practically glued to his side, Al's helping him too. Devin's turning into like...a martial arts fighter, damn his arms just grow bigger every time I see them. Yeah, all good! Great, so good." She drummed her fingers on the bar surface, nodding repeatedly.  
  
All good? The quick rundown she gave him sounded more like she were reciting battle and HP stats of army privates. Arching an eyebrow at the mention of a new wolf (oh, she had mentioned something of that before, hadn't she?) -- he smirks to himself. Oh, how lucky was he, if the pup was helping him that generally meant his father was too. How fortuitous. Ansel might be able to fully control the transformation, but that doesn't mean he was blind to the lingering trauma of it for his own pups.   
  
Letting the popped eyebrow wiggle, he nods once, lips pulling down smug and certain as if in a mental 'all-right' shrug themselves before he leans in.  
  
"And how about you? Preparing for war as well?"  
  
Talking about herself was, while usually effortless for her because she was flawless, not something she was comfortable in this conversation or maybe it wasn't exclusive only to this conversation either. Apart from Dillon, she hadn't told anybody else about what was going on with her. All for the best really.   
  
"I'm not a soldier, Ansel," she chuckled, shaking her head, "no, I'm good." Now she nodded, looking down at the two shot glasses and then looked back up determinedly.   
  
"How's the pack?"   
  
Not sure he believes her (and not even needing the fact that her heart skipped to tell him that), Ansel deliberates before accepting it. Trial basis, he thinks, as he was all too aware in the past that if he didn't like her answer he...well, could force it out of her. He still could, he thinks comfortably like holding on to a security blanket, but he doesn't need to -- chooses not to.   
  
As she looks away he leans a little back trying to remember his tendency to crowd her, and then smiles briefly at her question.  
  
"Ah, well dah-ling, three of us are perfectly well, the rest are simply well considering their sudden rejection of aid from a certain mutual ah, acquaintance."  
  
Ansel eyes her pointedly, as if she could do something about that. Maybe she could, he thinks, as Angel -- Harper, whatever he called himself, was much more willing to help his son's friends than anyone in his pack. Back teeth grit. Then he shrugs, says, "They're better off though, unquestionably. Allison even is thinking about adopting a pet...the trouble would be keeping said pet safe during full moons, but."  
  
Ansel chuckles, waving it off and adding, as if mildly observing, "We aren't so wonderful with this small talk thing, are we?"   
  
Yeah, she expected that. It must be tough on them, and Irene did feel bad to a point. That point ended when she remembered running across snowy grounds, getting away from werewolves and ruining her favorite shoes in the process. Besides, Harper had plenty of reason for not wanting to help the pack any further. And until he could really trust the pack, giving them that basically unlimited power...  
  
Except it wasn't power. They already had that. Even Reid, the puppy he was, was already showing damn awesome strength, and his abilities would get better, there was no stopping those powers. The potion was...freedom from having to turn. Sure, it also gave them the ability to turn, bam wolf right then and there but...oh this hurt.   
  
"Aww! She does?" Irene smiled. Thinking Allison felt safe enough, or at least stable enough to seriously consider a pet that was just, perfect. Hopefully the pet would avoid being a chewtoy come the full moon. Poor baby.  
  
"I don't know what you're talking about, I'm always wonderful," she fluffed up her hair with the back of her hand and shrugged with a smile before chuckling.  
  
"No, our conversations always tend to be more intense than that. Never pegged you for a mellow drunk, Ansel."  
  
He chuckled, nodding absently as she does (admittedly, caught a second watching her hair fluffed up, the short crop job she did having grown to a modest medium by now).  
  
"I'm not usually," he said, "but then, I haven't been truly drunk in seven years, and you know, maybe being mellow is the better option."   
  
Though his words were light, there was a shadow that passes through his eyes -- a grey tinge to the jade green. Drinking had never been his kryptonite, but it had occurred heavily surrounding consumption of...other intoxicating agents and honestly, pick a day of the week, he would take mellow and in control over being blast of the party -- and out of it. Clearing his throat and rubbing at it once, he pushes the glasses further away before side-eying their spy again, just to make sure he knew he'd been made. It wouldn't mame him leave, but it was great fun.  
  
"Intense is a good word for it," his smile widens, "diplomatic of you, which I greatly appreciate. You could have said terrifying if you wanted, my feelings wouldn't have been hurt."  
  
Course not, that would have been a compliment. Raising his hand to rest over his heart for a second and feigning hurt with the words, he teased her. "Much."   
  
Very true. Mellow was definitely preferred to any kind of attitude he would have turned into if he were really intoxicated. And also, sober him wasn't exactly a vat of cherry flavored lollipops mixed with coconut flavored vodka. Though, that sounded really good right now.  
  
"Ah well, I wouldn't want to break your heart. I'm so considerate that way, who knows, maybe one day you'll even extend me the same courtesy. Fingers crossed," she brought them up for him to see.  
  
"Besides, I wouldn't have gone with terrifying. I would have said...chilling. Oppressing. Disrespectful. Brutish. Exasperating. Infuriating. Disarming. Am I hurting your feelings yet or complimenting you?"   
  
Both was probably the best descriptor. Irene watched as he got up, made sure he didn't stumble or something and had to call him a cab, or a pack, to come pick him up. Hopefully he wasn't off to do stupid decisions like spray paint 'I hate Antonio D'Grey' or 'Darrell 4 Prez' onto the Eiffel Tower.  
  
"If there's one thing you are, Ansel, it is definitely surprising." She shook her head after an incredulous and almost defeated chuckle. The defeat came from realizing yeah, yep, she was going to get in major trouble for this.  
  
"So now it's your turn to walk off, we keep switching back and forth. Nothing's even the littlest bit blurry, is it? Damn that wolfie tolerance would do me some good." It was impossible to get addicted if it just didn't do it for you, right? Maybe there was some way to have their tolerance without the whole...turning into a ravaging animal every full moon.    
  
Bemused, he tilts his head and pauses again, forgetting whatever epic parting line he has as she asks that. His lips purse, chin lifts. It takes only a moment to remember the autumn night he'd first thought the same, shivering and sweating at the same time, moon fat and low in the sky. Salvation pretended to be only answering yes away, and if he were still the man he was then, he might tell her she didn't want this. Yet, who was he to be so massively hypocritical?   
  
"Blurry?" He asks instead, shaking his head fractions of inches, "To be honest dahling, at this moment, quite a lot of things are blurry. Just nothing wrong with my eye-sight. But indeed I won't hold you longer, I imagine your excuse for talking to me already will have to be quite epic. "  
  
Before he could stop himself, he reaches to lift her hand to his lips, offering the gentle farewell poet's prefer and letting his fingers slowly graze hers and hang in the air a few lingering seconds as he murmurs, " Jusqu'a ce que nous reverrons." Then he pulls away to shrug coat on, zip up, and disappear before she blinks.   
  



	36. And what of the picture released to the press of you in mid-act?

**Tony:** *In the midst of switching from one part of the spa to another, Tony got an alert on his phone. The 5 o'clock news were due to start soon and Daniella hadn't been lying; Amalie was working. Getting dressed, he slipped out the back of the spa without telling anyone and headed to his car, driving quickly to where Amalie would be though he wasn't too thrilled to be heading to court. It took him about 20 minutes. He parked two blocks away and walked the rest of the way. Amalie was going over some last minute questions with the person she would be interviewing outside of the building as the camera finished setting up. Tony hung back, making sure he was unseen until the small woman held the microphone expectedly and began talking at the camera.*

 **Amalie:** Oui, Delphine, merci. *she continues in French* Paris is abuzz with talk of all charges being dropped against Antonio D'Grey earlier today. Judge Marron, the judge that presided over the case ruled there was insufficient evidence to convinct D'Grey. Given the prosecution's previous success with issuing a warrant and denying D'Grey bail as a flight risk, there's no question as to why some believe there was foul play involved. I'm here with the officer that was first on the site of the crime scene. Officer Neige, thank you for your time. *he nods, hands held behind him as he tried to look more brave than he actually was.*

 **Tony:** Yes, officer *he walked up to them in an instant, clapping Neige on the shoulder as the man shuddered with eyes wide in surprise and Amalie breathed in suddenly through her nose as the camera panned out to include him.* I'm sorry, do you need me to crouch down a little? I know it's difficult to keep Amalie in shot, she's so tiny-

 **Amalie:** Antonio D'Grey *she started again, obviously trying to regain control of the situation and moving to push Neige out of the way and partially behind her. Tony thought it was cute, or he would if his eyes weren't narrowed and dark with how much anger he had towards a woman he thought was his friend* do you have anything to say about the circumstances of your release.

 **Tony:** Oh I have several things to say, little Mali, but none of which could be transmitted live. *The camera man looked at Amalie, mouthing if she wanted to cut off the feed, but Amalie gave him no signal. That probably had to do with the sudden 'keep rolling!' that had been instructed to both of them from their earpieces. Ah perfect, as long as he had their intention.* It's obvious to why I was released. I'm innocent.

 **Amalie:** You deny being responsible for the death of (insert names of men here)? *She extended her microphone for Tony to talk into it, her eyebrow raised.*

 **Tony:** Isn't that what innocent means?

 **Amalie:** And what of the picture released to the press of you in mid-act?

 **Tony:** Oh, Mali *she flinched again, as she had every time he threw out a condescending nickname her way. Her heartbeat picked up even more. Soon and Paris would witness a live heart attack* you were always so good with the computer. *He put his arm around her shoulder and felt her stiffen. She tried to push him away, but he only held on to her tighter.* I know you see this as some kind of revenge, if I knew breaking up with you would cause this much scandal, I think I would have married you after all.

 **Amalie:** What are you talking about-

 **Tony:** *he looked directly at the camera* You should see the pictures she has doctored of herself in the most scandalous positions- I'm pretty sure you never knew Gaspard Ulliel that intimately.

 **Amalie:** *she had kept her bottom lip from quivering by steeling her jaw shut, but forced it open again* If you're insinuating the picture of you drinking blood from that man's neck was doctored, any number of professionals can tell you it was not.

 **Tony:** Did you sleep with them too? *he put his hand to his heart, as if he could stop hers from beating out of her chest with the gesture* I apologize, I'm sorry, that was out of line. But then again, so was setting me up for murder out of spite and jealousy. Mali, I'm disappointed.

 **Amalie:** D'Grey, your false allegations tonight are only proof of your own wickedness-

 **Tony:** I think I have the right to be angry when I'm thrown under the bus by a person I cared and respected. *Their eyes met in the realization it was the truest statement he had said throughout this whole messed up interview.* I'm sorry, was all of Paris not aware that we were so acquainted? A reporter with a bias trying to spin a story and call it the truth, I'm shock. *Amalie struggled for words at the same time she struggled to keep tears of frustration out of her eyes. Tony couldn't find it in himself to feel any remorse for being responsible for it. Eye for an eye. He turned to the camera again and smiled* This has been an exclusive with Amalie Avenier, because from here on out I will answer every press question the same way: no comment. Back to you, Delphine. *He turned to Amalie, winked once and said loud enough for the mic to pick up* the sex was great while it lasted. *He gave the microphone to the camera man, who immediately took it and turned off the camera and began to back away.*

 **Amalie:** *Fuming, and with the cameras off, her jaw trembled constantly but she forced herself to look at Tony again. He turned to her, a smug smirk on his face and before he could say anything, Amalie slapped him across the face. It was like slapping a concrete wall.* You asshole.

 **Tony:** You should have brought that to the interview! We would have gone viral for sure- *whack! She slapped him again, and again. The last time it actually begun to sting a little.* Now we're even, Mighty Mouse.

 **Amalie:** Even?! *she remarked incredulously, scoffing and then laughing so hard, Tony thought she was going to run out of breath soon. Instead, Amalie took the earpiece out of her ear and shook her head* You humiliated me, belittled me, condescended to me, and ruined my reputation for all the country to see-

 **Tony:** Gee! I wonder, why does that sound familiar?!

 **Amalie:** Are you fucking kidding me, Antonio? I wrote the truth and you know it!

 **Tony:** You painted me as guilty! It's not that simple!

 **Amalie:** I stated the facts, and you came here and spewed one lie after the other solely with the purpose to discredit me! Congratulations, fucker, you probably succeeded!

 **Tony:** Stop whining, as if it's such a big deal-

 **Amalie:** You don't know shit about me, Tony.

 **Tony:** And I call myself a hypocrite!

 **Amalie:** I know enough to know you have no idea all the hard work I've put in to my work. You don't have any idea how hard it is for me, a black woman in a male dominated industry, to get to where I am this early on! And you reduced me to a jealous ex-girlfriend and insinuated I sleep my way to the top?! *Her hands shook, and for a moment Tony thought she was going to strangle him or slap him again but all she did was wipe at her eyes again and then fix him with a loathsome glare* You're despicable. I never printed that photo with any intention to hurt you.

 **Tony:** No! Just to make sure everyone in the world was convinced I was a killer before the whole trial even started!

 **Amalie:** Do you want to know what all the other articles sounded like before mine? How often they mentioned Olivier and concentrated on the fact that the trial was an attack on him? How they almost all utterly ignored you?

 **Tony:** So you put me into the spotlight and threw yourself in there too! Fuck you, Amalie, nothing good came from that picture.

 **Amalie:** That picture got thrown out of the prosecution's plan because it was a miscarriage of justice!

 **Tony:** Happy coincidence *he stated*

 **Amalie:** *she snorts, her breathing erratic* Y-you think I w-wo, would leave anything to a happy coincidence? You s-s-seriously believe I di-didn't *she took a breath to calm her stuttering, passing shaking hands through her hair but completely forgot to wipe at her eyes that were now red and glassy* I took everything into consideration before I published that article and that picture, Antonio. Including the repercussions for you and for me. You think *she laughed again* I didn't know it was going to get thrown out? I knew! I didn't want you in jail! I never believed you should be in there!

 **Tony:** Sure have a funny way to show it.

 **Amalie:** Yeah, funny way, publishing the picture that helped get you out and getting charged with obstruction! *she shakes her head, laughing incredulously again*

 **Tony:** *Quickly* You didn't get me out, my brother got me out!

 **Amalie:** Yeah! *She slapped her hand against her thigh. The sound was loud enough to make Tony falter in a brief wince. He didn't need x-ray vision or hybrid senses to know it left a red mark in the shape of her handprint* Yes, yes he did! In true D'Grey fashion!  *She faltered as she realized quickly by the expression on Tony's face that he didn't know what she was talking about. She scoffed* You have no idea what I'm talking about. *She scoffed again and started to walk past him. He took her elbow to turn her around, but she turned and slapped him again.* Don't! Touch me. *She took her arm back and stormed away.*


	37. And you smell like Ansel Dorat, because?

"...Yeah, I knew you were going to follow me."  
  
Alcott spoke without turning around, pouring a whiskey twice his age into a red cup long before the door swung shut again. The heartbeat resonating in his ear, he fixes amber eyes on the cup to steady them, the corner of his lips turning up in a smirk made of pride more than anger. (Maybe flip those). Behind rapid beats were those of the club scene through the revolving door: shrieking treble over pulsating Pop music (apparently Tony's favorite) - with added bass to shake the walls and drown out any secrets told tonight D'Grey didn't want getting out.   
  
Thing was, vampires might have their great hearing and all that, but you couldn't beat wolves for sense of smell. When he turns around to offer the cup to her, his eyes were the usual brown.  
  
"Care to tell me Rene, why I can smell Ansel Dorat on your clothes? And please, do be graphic, I need a sharp, shock of reality to clear my imagination."   
   
Flask in his other hand, he's already going for a swig.   
  
"Well no one else packs the good stuff like you do, hon," Irene beamed, holding her hair up from her neck and fanning it from the intense dancing she had been doing inside. Damn, what a great club though. Parisians really knew how to live it up during the night.  
  
Smile on her face, she reached for the cup, but the question took her so off guard that her fingers slipped, getting her hand and a little of her shoes wet with the liquor.  
  
"Shit, noo! These are new!" She huffed, stomping her foot -then holding out her hands to stay balanced because she wasn't exactly sober even if she wasn't as drunk as she wished she would be.  
  
"Well, I hope you're happy, you've baptized my Zanotti heels!" Irene cleared her throat, looking properly miffed as she looked at Al, after a quick look the the club door to make sure it no one was coming out, tapping her left foot against the concrete of the sidewalk.  
  
"What exactly is your imagination coming up with, because, really, I would looove to know exactly what it is you think I'm capable of."  
  
Reaching out quickly, a half second before she slips he catches the cup again and chuckles in spite of himself. Oh Irene. Dammit, no, come on, he was angry -- or irritated, or, or...he didn't know what he felt. It's why he went outside. Shaking his head as she took it again he took a step back, happening to lift his hand with the flask in it again, so he decides hell with it, does another quick shot.  
  
"Oh, come on," he said with the smirk unmoved, clicking tongue against the corner of his mouth in disbelief, "I can smell him _on_ you, not just on your clothes -- he touched you, and recently. And we're outside a welcome home party for Tony D'Grey, so, you know, I'm a little confused. And I want to know if I should be hunting the dick down right now."  
  
Ignoring her quick breathing (even if Al wouldn't be able to, damn wolf senses), she tilted her head and then put her hand over her chest, "Alcott Brackner, is this jealousy I hear? If you wanted me to touch you why didn't you ask?" She stepped forward and then smacked him across the back of his head with a fake smile.  
  
"That's for insinuating what you were insinuating before!" She harrumphs, taking a drink out of the cup, a gulp actually, a few gulps.  
  
"And no, you don't need to go hunting for anything, I'm the one who approached him this time, okay, relax." Now if she could take her own advice and relax herself. Maybe if he hadn't made it sound so dirty with that judging smirk she would be able to.  
  
"Is that why you stepped out here?"   
  
Honestly, smacking a werewolf on the head? Yeah, she probably hurt herself more than him, but he makes the 'ouch' sound anyways and backs up a few steps anyways. A quick glance at the moon reminds him of two things: it's silhouetted by the damned Eiffel Tower, so he's nowhere near home base -- and oh yeah, he doesn't need the moon to turn any longer. No, now the need was raring under his skin at all times (the -thought- of Ansel touching her again --) and he frankly knew he was more dangerous than ever. Not that he was telling his Dad that part.  
  
So he steps back, smirking and muttering, "probably deserved that", but she wasn't denying anything! Except making it clear he couldn't cling to the notion she was held against her will which -- honestly, he already guessed, but that didn't mean he'd wanted it confirmed.  
  
Holding a hand up (this time without his flask), he nods before saying, "Yeah, kind of. My nose is too damn sensitive -- Stefanie was giving me a migraine too, but gotta say, even the vampire smelled more pleasant than realizing..." Alcott trails off, just gesturing her in disbelief. Then he sighs. Ansel? Really?  
  
"You sought him out?" Alcott echoes, thumb tapping the flask cap, "Irene...look, you once gave me a chance, I'd be the worst hypocrite if I didn't admit your ability to see the good in someone is something I benefited from -- fuck, something I love about you, but.... por Los Dios, Ansel? He put a dent in your head!"   
  
He pauses, drops his hand and then looks at her; suddenly completely still, he didn't even take a breath. (Easier not to smell that way.)  
  
"But...this isn't the first time you helped him. I mean, how else could he have told Hans where Rachelle was?"  
  
"Than realizing what? That your BFF is mingling with another werewolf that isn't yourself- gee!" Irene slapped her hand on her lap, "Now doesn't that sound familiar? So why am I the only one getting Inquisitioned?" That was the word, right? And excuse her, but she was taking more than a little offense at the fact that a vampire smelled more pleasant to a werewolf than realizing she smelled like wolf. That was offensive, she was offended.  
  
"Well, at least you admit your penchant for hypocrisy," Irene took another sip (gulp) and then passed a hand through her hair, fingers brushing against her dent. As if she needed a reminder that she was losing her mind.  
  
"Whoa, whoa, hey!" She raised her finger, "Insinuating I'm slutting it up is one thing, I didn't help Ansel, okay, I helped Rachelle. And for your information, I wasn't in the position to keep that information okay, I was half naked in a dressing room and yeah that's not really helping the point here, oi vey." Yeah, she might need to bum a smoke soon if her drink ended faster than this conversation.  
  
"Look, I forgave him. He's forgiven! Done. It doesn't mean you have to forgive him, doesn't mean you have to like him, it just means you have to trust that I know what I'm doing! Do you?"  
  
Eyes narrowing immediately in a scowl of disbelief, he grits his teeth to swallow a scoff (and more whiskey). Then he slips the flask back into his blazer, shaking his head as he mutters instinctively, "It's not 'other wolves' I have a problem with -- trust me, Irene, I went willingly to that damn pack to beg them for a potion it turns out they were subjagating my father to get."     
  
Maybe he should bring out the flask again. It was infuriating him; Alcott wasn't even sure why they were here. Of course, when Eliza, Nadia and Irene went, Devin, Dillon, and Hols went -- and yeah, he wasn't one to be left behind on a (er, Sunday night) -- but, really? They were celebrating the fact that D'Grey broke the law again to get his brother, who definitely had killed those assholes, out of jail.     
  
Alcott wanted this all over with. Otherwise, he was too aware of his penchant for vengeance and well, these blokes all were capable of giving him reasons to exact it. Still, he tries to listen. Honest though, he does -- werewolves have tempers, okay?! He can't help it--    
  
Oh, great, now he probably sounds like the dick in question. Rubbing a hand over his face he starts nodding, before finally finding his breath again.     
  
"Let me ask you this then, Irene. If you're so certain there's nothing up, why have you kept it all a secret? Because it is all, isn't it? I mean you didn't forgive him over night. So you've been seeing him. And yeah, I trust you, but I don't trust him, anymore than I trust the D'Greys' in there."    
  
He gestures over his head backwards and then slaps his thigh.  
  
"It hasn't been a secret," she interjected quickly, feeling like it was a little too close to home for her to be comfortable with it, "Dillon knows. And this has only been the second time since Notre Dame, so yeah, I kinda forgave him overnight. I was done being angry! I know that's difficult for you to comprehend Mr. Grumpy-Snout-I'm-Always-Angry-Wolves-Got-That-Rage-Anger-Makes-You-Strong-Don't-Fuck-With-Me, but that's really how simple it is. He apologized and I accepted, so now he's forgiven and yeah I went over to him when I saw him drinking by himself, and now that's making you gag harder than vampire corpse stench?"   
  
Technically, Irene didn't smell vampires as corpses, Stefanie super sweet, way sweet and too much would probably make her gag but that's how Al had described Marcus' smell on Hols.  
  
"Eliza does," she countered when Al said he didn't trust the D'Greys either, "and Nadia does, to an extent with Tony I suppose, the same as me with Olivier, but hey, I'm not the only one with a werewolf stalker I've forgiven! I don't see you giving her shit for smelling like Hans."  
  
"Ah." Right, well, she would have told her boyfriend. Was it wrong of him that he still felt she should have told him? Not that he was reacting particularly well, true...  Rubbing his eyes as he rolls his head forward he first points out, hot and instinctive, "Eliza might have forgiven him, but this isn't about that, and also, that's because she's never smelled like him. But still! I have seperate issues with that. I do take issue with it. But thankfully Hans did do one decent thing and you know, he left the continent and I am just more than happy to leave it that way. Sayonara."   
  
Lifting his hand to his forehead and saluting and imaginary boat, he takes a few steps backwards. Whoops. Little extra force there in his salute than he meant to have.      
  
Lips perking up he adds, gentler, "And no, you don't smell like a corpse. That may have been....er, harsh." Maybe? Well thing was, Stefanie didn't smell like that right now because her skin wasn't rotting, which also meant she recently drank fresh -- but, yeah he was a hypocrite if he came out against drinking.   Sighing heavily and relaxing his shoulders forcibly, he finally says quieter, "I'm sorry -- I do trust you. It's just...look, it might have even been a lie! I don't know! But...Dad backed it up, when Hans said that Ansel would have no problem kidnapping my father again, Irene. I'm basically waiting for the day he comes after him."  
  
That surprised Irene. Really? She never smelled like Hans at all, even at their Christmas party?! That wasn't fair! Eliza must have some sort of scent blocker on her, anti-werewolf thing, either way, Irene made a mental note to ask Eliza about it later. Besides, that wasn't the point here, she wasn't trying to throw Eliza under the bus, even if Irene was surprised Alcott didn't know yet.  
  
But at the same time, no she wasn't. Eliza was in Paris after all, and given how Alcott was reacting over her smelling like Ansel, just because they held hands for like, a second, Irene wouldn't want to be there for Alcott's reaction to the extent of Eliza's relationship with Hans.  
  
"May have been?" She tapped her foot on the ground again, exhaling through her nose and flipping what she had of her hair.  
  
"And you're getting that piece of information from such trustworthy a source! Well, of course, we should trust what Hans said! And fine, yes, Hans definitely knows Ansel better than I do but you can't just assume the worst of people! Sure, Ansel wants that potion for his pack, of course he does Alcott! But he's trying to make a home for them, a safe home here in Paris. And need I remind you that the pack left Hans because they didn't want to be treated like servile little bitches just because he saved them- when in fact he probably helped break at least half of them by the way. And it was Hans who taught them how to be werewolves, and that basically you have to be a killing machine, and all that jazz. Have you ever considered that maybe they don't want to be like that anymore? Now that they don't have to be lapdogs for Gustav, they get a second chance? And why -shouldn't- they get that second chance, Alcott? Because Harper happens not to like them and he is the wielder of the potion so he decides who's free and who's not? If I were a werewolf, I'd be more than a little pissed off myself!"  
  
Irene finally breathed but blinked when she realized the rant she had gone on. That had not been the point.  
  
"You don't even know him, is what I was trying to say. And if you just expect someone to be their worse than 9 out of 10 times that's what they'll be." Don't hold her responsible for the statistic, that was more a guess than anything else but it sounded legit.  
  
"Happens not to like them?" Alcott broke in, his (fine, almost) good humor shattered by the insert. Irene and him were alike in many ways -- it was what made them such 'platonic soulmates' -- and never more so than in their ability to rant up a pretty speech, work themselves up and forget altogether what they meant to say in the first place.     
  
But he wasn't letting that slide. His father -- after what he went through?! Fine, yes, technically he knew Irene better than Dad, but whose bleeding fault was that?!     
  
"Yeah, well I might not know him, but my Dad does, Irene. He's known him for years. Years, when they were showing up in his cell all hours of the night and day, demanding healthcare and attention, giving no shit about his privacy, identity or well-being. Dad's been giving them that bloody potion, on pain of -my- or my mother's life, and he knows exactly how many, many people they have been able to hurt because of it. Don't act like this is some arbitrary decision out of...out of spite!"     
  
Though you know what? Lord knew his father deserved the opportunity for a little spite at this point. Was a little payback so out of line? Forgive his father for not wanting to continue to aid psychopathic murderers.     
  
"And that's, why they left Hans? To build a safe home in Paris?" He asks that a little quieter, brows furrowed in slight confusion as he again looks back at the bar.   
  
"D'Grey's vampire haven Paris?"  Didn't Paris have enough problems?  Heavens, fine, he doesn't honestly care about that. Too English, he guesses with a little smirk.     
  
"And I know Eliza and Nadia trust them. Hell, it was Dad they went to for help with Stefanie -- see, once he knew she wasn't a danger to society, he helped her go out in the day! I mean do you really," and he tries to ask this softer, genuinely curious as he looks back up at her, shoulders relaxing and hand falling, "do you really believe as alpha that Ansel and the pack -aren't- a danger?"  
  
Okay, fine, maybe that part was a little out there, bordering on insensitivity but you know, she was 16 she was allowed to be insensitive especially as far as parents were concerned because honestly when did any of them turn out to be anything other than major disappointments or hypocritical shits?  
  
Irene looked down at her drink, glaring at it, knowing she was going through that 'in wine there is truth' shit that sounded better in Latin only it wasn't wine, it was whiskey and Alcott was the one whining. Or maybe that was her. Clearly she had two options, stop drinking or not.   
  
Naturally, she chugged what was left of the drink in the cup.  
  
"Those werewolves were taken in after they were probably abandoned by everyone they knew, after losing people they loved and cared about, maybe even by their own hands because they had no one there with them during the full moon. I know I don't have to tell you how that feels, Al. And Hans, he gave them a place where they didn't have to be alone or scared and as anti-Hans as my previous statement sounded, I can see the good intentions behind the horrible actions. And they were a family under him, and really trusted him, so of course they behaved like Hans wanted them to behave, like he was taught to behave, when they tortured him like Harper was tortured.  
  
I am not," she quickly made the distinction before Alcott's eyes started shining amber, "definitely not saying that their situations are equal. The pack had a lot more autonomy than your father, they chose to hurt people and learned to revel in it, because the alternative was wallow in the misery of their existence. They adapted to survive, and maybe they lost a part of who they were along the way but not everyone's as strong as your dad, Al. And in some ways it was still a form of duress- it wasn't like the werewolves could just up and leave Roswell anyways! He had their furry balls in a vice grip as much as every other prisoner." Okay, that was an image she hadn't meant to get stuck up in her head, oops.  
  
"No, once he knew that D'Grey would take full responsibility, he helped her out. Full responsibility here meaning: if she starts slaughtering humans in broad daylight, Olivier, I expect you to handle the problem. Handle here meaning:," then she dragged her thumb across her neck as she pushed air through her teeth and made a weird sound that had somehow become socially accepted as a noise for 'dead' over the years. Oi vey.  
  
"They aren't a danger to us. Well," she looked back at the club, groaning and rubbing her forehead as she felt a headache coming on, "actually if we keep being Team D'Grey, we might eventually be. I don't kno- I don't want him to be! And maybe if I keep talking to him by shining fucking positivity on his choices it will illuminate the road ahead, blessed be thy Lord who has granted me with such powers of persuasion, aaaaaaamen!" She held her hand high, tilting her head back to look directly up into the sky. Church of Irene was deep in the sermons after all.  
  
A second later her head looked back up again, snapping her head forward, "And hopefully that road isn't bloody but there's no way to really know beforehand you just got to have a little faith. Say the words with me, Alcott, say, 'I believe in Sheila Holmes'. 'I believe in her judgment despite the fact it has already failed when it comes to Ansel Dorat, and I believe the good she sees in that guy and the pack are legit and actual and therefore worth coaxing out of their furry little shells. Furthermore, I firmly believe that-' Al, you're not repeating."  
  
No, he wasn't repeating along with her. That was for a brief shiny moment the only thing he knew for certain --and Alcott hates that. He hates the thought that he has doubts, that he isn't certain. The only other thing he was certain of was his father hadn't thought everything through to the inevitable conclusion that D'Grey would kill Stefanie if necessary. No one got to foresee that far ahead (except maybe Nadia, but, that was a whole other story).     
  
Rubbing hard on his forehead he finally says, "My head's spinning." He couldn't process all she said; he only knew right now he didn't truly give a fuck if that good was 'real' and 'legit.' He did care that Irene cared however.    
  
Slowly, he adds as he slipped his flask back out to fiddle with the cap, "Wolves shouldn't have to choose between organized murder with a family and wholesale mindlessly painful transformations. There should be a third option. That's what I *want* to do, Rene -- what do you think I've been doing with Reid? Yes, of course I know how bullshit alone and terrifying it can feel but -- I don't, and my father doesn't owe them squat for having been the lesser of two evils. And you're right, they're frankly shaping a war up here in France, I just....I just don't think I can honestly support either side."    
  
Not wholesale anyway. He disagrees too instinctively with them both.  
  
"Well what do you know, I am intoxicating after all, and not always in the good way," she mumbled as Al admitted to having his head spin for him, which she knew wasn't the alcohol working on him.  
  
"Well, are you even going to give them the chance for the third option? Because it seems to me, what I've been interpreting from this conversation, is that you've already written Ansel off." And that really ticked her off, more than she knew she should.  
  
"I don't support the sides, lube them up and fuck the sides, all I care about is the people in them. You might be content to just the shit happen in Paris and that's none of your business and just let it happen as long as it doesn't reach English shores and fine, do that, okay. I understand. Please understand, however, why I can't do that."  
  
"I have every intention of offering a third side," Alcott bristled as he thinks internally 'isn't that all an extension of the same problem though?' "But I'm not gonna go kill Ansel for his pack either. Like you said, they're a family. They won't follow me and I'm not convinced they even should...anymore than I'd follow him."   
  
Alcott might generically understand pack hierarchy, but he wasn't part of one. His pack was made up (apart from Reid) of lionesses, hunters, dark witches, light wizards maybe a vampire and oh yeah a Seer -- but he didn't agree with the Alpha mythos with them. They weren't one above the other. That's one of the reasons Olivier and his brother tick him off.     
  
Exhaling at her ultimatum though, he nods once. "Yeah, I know you can't." Irene, Shiela Holmes reincarnated and genderbent, she was hell to get to keep out of something. And more power to her!     
  
"You're sticking yourself smack in the middle of them though." Alcott sounds almost proud as he adds this. Hashtag Brackner problems.  
  
"Good! I approve of civilization because really this wolf hierarchy freaks me out, this is the 21st century, not the dark ages and voter representation is an actual thing. And that's not even tackling the gross gender difference in the pack anyways but that's a whole other issue," she waves her hand in the air and then clears her throat.  
  
A little smile tugs at Irene's mouth as she hears an inkling of pride in Al's tone. There it was, the Brackner hypocrisy at its best instead of its worst.  
  
"The middle is the perfect place in a threesome." Irene winks at him.  
  
Alcott cocks both eyebrows as he considers if he should dare wander into asking what she meant by gender difference in the hierarchy. Regarding the stance she takes, like a Valkryie fresh from Valhalla, and the shudder gripping her spine, he decides quickly. He shouldn't dare.     
  
"Gender difference?" But since when do Brackners do what they should? And that was usual Brackners, not those with all the...reckless, wolf, anger issues she so eloquently delineated before. Slipping the flask away as she winks, he smirks back in genuine appreciation and nods.    
  
"Well, I can't argue with that. Though I can point out I have no interest in such a threesome myself. All I want right now, actually, is for someone to give me a straight answer on what it's going to take to get Marcus off of Hols' back."  
  
"You know, girl to guy ratio! Stuff like that! Actually, Ansel's beta is Allison so an argument could be made for progressive action but like I said that's a whole other issue!" Definitely not what they were talking about. Maybe there was a biological reason there weren't as many female werewolves but Irene doubted. Irene was pretty damn sure that it was entirely related to the fact Roswell and the whole lot of abusive sadistic fuckers under him were sexist, prejudice, wankers.  
  
"That sounds like a question to ask Olivier you know," she told him with a small nod, "also, poor choice of words, Al." She walked over and then put her arm around his shoulders, or rather one shoulder.  
  
"Have you always been this big?" She asked idly, her head tilting as she looked at him and then shrugged before leaning her chin on his shoulder and looking up at him through her eyelashes.  
  
"I'm waiting."  
  
"I get bigger all the time," he answered instantly, customary smirk in place before he relents and sidles up to her as well. After wrapping his arm around her waist, he effortlessly picks her up, spinning around as she rests in his grasp bridal-style. The joy in his cheeky grin leaves his throat that, pardon his pun, sounds like a bark.     
  
Then and only then does he return, "I, Alcott Brackner, do believe in Shiela Holmes and her judgement despite the fact it failed once because..." yeah, he forgets, so he supplies easily, "Moriarty was real."     
  
Only then does he set her down, refusing still to let her go as he acknowledges with a headjerk.    
  
"And yeah, yeah, fine, it probably is but it's something Dani's just as likely to know, so I'll stick to asking her.  
  
"For a short period of time, and then you deflate to normal size just like all other- whoa nelly!" Irene's words drift into a giggle fit, until she realized that her own head was starting to be dizzy so she closed her eyes before her stomach abruptly decided it was going to give up on her.  
  
Giggling still, opening her eyes as her feet touched ground (and still held on to him for dear life and balance), she nodded, pleased at how he had altered it. Good enough.  
  
"I'm not denying Dani's fierceness and I would totally shag her were I single or were Dillon under the belief that girls don't count, so proud of him for not believing that shit, but Olivier -lived- with a vampire, and has fucked a few too. I don't know if Dani has, but still...I don't know, you do you, boo boo. How's Hols handling it by the way she seemed a little..."  
  
Irene looked back to the club over her shoulder, "Hostile. Er. Hostiler. More hostile than usual, and ready to get drunk but also stubbornly sober at the same time. So she trusts the D'Grey's about as much as you do I'm guessing."  
  
Alcott could honestly say he did not want to know how Irene had any notions of the people and vampires that Olivier D'Grey had slept with. Nope. He was not going there and oh hey look she conveniently provided a wonderful image of her shagging an equally hot blonde model, upright, in lingerie half peeled off, their chests bumping into each other ...     
  
...ahem, fine, maybe he added the details. Clearing his throat (and punching the center of his chest), Alcott nods as he goes to open the door for them both again.    
  
"Little bit less, I'd guess," he agrees, "but she's got it all under control. So she swears." This was stated proudly too.   Smiling a bit as he holds the door open for her, he adds, "And Dani knows more magic than most think actually. When she'd read my Dad's research to me, the comments she had were...well, off the usual realm of what school allows."  
  
"Oh God," she began after she saw the proud smug look on his face, "just tell her you love her already!" Her voice got a little louder at the end when she walked into the club, Sexy Back blaring through the speakers and drowning out most of everything else. Alcott might have wolf hearing but she didn't. Yet another thing she wouldn't mind having. It would make her Holmes business a lot easier.  
  
"Yeah, she's definitely freaky! Let's go dance with her! You're totally forgiven by the way for insinuating I'm a total slut," she leaned up to kiss his cheek and then grabbed his hand, "let's go! DANIELLA!"  
  
In typical Alcott fashion, he ignored that remark with absurd ease, busying himself with his proud beam and happy nod before leaning in to kiss her cheek too.   Briefly, before she went and shouted for Dani, making him chuckle and willingly get pulled into a sprawling dance floor with poor lighting and too-much-bass. But it was a wonderful distraction, which, was probably the point.


	38. You want to know what feeding really is?

Scrolling down the Lucite screen to read at top speed, her thoughts were all of rage. 

For as long as she could remember, Stefanie had been known as the *soft* Ricard. She and Hans could have been twins when they were little, apart from gender. She was the girl. He got the weapons, the BB gun and archery set for Christmas, she got princess tiaras and Barbies. (Once she got a Merida doll, but that was from Hans, and she'd kept it hidden from her father.) When they grew, Hans became no one at all in Austria -- but around the world, oh, that was a different story. He was feared, his temper legendary, a literal beast. She? She became only the pretty, leggy blonde who cares and loves too much, too hard, too fast. 

She wipes the corner of her mouth languid and slow, beer and salt covering the back of her palm. 

Stefanie was sensitive, she wouldn't lie about that (like Hans wasn't?) but passion always was a two-sided coin. Yes, she had once been fragile compared to the supernatural creatures her brother was oh so fond of running around with, but that changed forever two months ago. (Forever, oh, there was a word.) That was no excuse for hiding this from her for three fucking days. Had Tony seen it? Did he know? Her eyes flick over the top of it to look at him, bent over a pool table. It was a gorgeous visual, even if he was clothed and actually playing (losing) the game with his hunter mentor.

He wouldn't even notice if she left, she thinks, and for the first time the thought didn't hurt. A few quick clicks had the address for a certain TV studio on her phone. The search engine read her mind; before she could blink, an ETA was blinking at her. Hopping off the bar stool, she did just that, relying on the iPhone map and her natural predator instincts to slip out the back of the bar. This wouldn't take that long.

Oh and she owed Olivier a new laptop.

Then again, who was she kidding? He probably had a dozen of them all backed up and connected so they could be wiped at any moment if a federal agent got a hold of it. Served him right for keeping the article from her. Her heels click and crack through the wires after skewering the screen with the spike. She tracks broken keys as she walks, little 'Ks' and 'Cntrl's scattering behind her. There's no need for a coat, and it amuses her to be in such a skimpy dress and high hairstyle on the chilly February night. Something so ethereal could only be unnatural.

The moon was fat overhead. Amused at the thought somewhere in the world her brother had become a beast (screw time zones, and screw the fact she didn't know where he was), she thinks: now they're twins in this too. Her temper had always been hot. She was a Ricard, she tried to tell people, but no one had ever listened to her before. 

(They were listening now).

Turning the corner, Stefanie stills as her quarry appears on the studio's doorstep, apparently telling someone on the phone thanks for the invite but no thanks and she would go straight home (or something like that, to be honest, Stefanie truly wasn't listening.) 

"Amalie Avenier?" The call was high, lilting as she is light on her feet. 

"Yes?" Amalie began without turning around at first. She had just finished getting off the phone with her brother, offering to pick her up from work but truthfully she didn't feel like dealing with anyone today anymore. She just wanted to go home, take a shower, and try not to drink a full bottle of wine before going to sleep. Amalie was going to need to be fully sober to deal with her other boss at the paper tomorrow morning.

So she was really mentally preparing herself to tell whoever this was to fuck well enough off. Pocketing her cellphone, she turned around and was surprised to recognize who was calling for her.

"Stefanie Ricard." There was no confusion as to why she had received the model's attention. It was the same reason she had been receiving all the attention recently.

"My reputation precedes me, then." Stefanie said. Her nail tucks a delicate golden strand back behind her ear with the air of one tensing before a lunge. 

"Excellent." 

Amalie disagreed.

The woman really was a striking appearance, Amalie had to admit it. All legs and blonde hair, she was the prime male fantasy. Vampirism had only made her features sharper, her allure stronger. Amalie was in more layers than she even remembered to keep out the cold, and Stefanie was wearing a dress the same way a knight would wear battle armor.

Amalie exhaled, keeping the curse she wanted to mutter to the safe confines of her own mind.

"What are you doing here?"

"I thought we could have a little chat," Stefanie's accent was heavy with anticipation, but her chin lifts contrarily only an inch higher. The skirt flips around her knees with the wind as it whistles between her legs and into the alleyway. After another step forward, her tongue is out, tasting the air. Amalie smells like oranges, sandalwood, and some coffee bean lingering in her veins. Poor dear, Stefanie thinks, wondering how many cappuccinos she had to down to work these long hours. Behind her a neon clock at a bank blazes out '21:36' and Stefanie glances it at to remind herself she shouldn't stay away from the party too long. 

Stefanie said "chat", and maybe even believed it herself because there was no warning buzz in her ear telling Amalie she was lying, but her walk and general vibe said otherwise. Amalie might not have the greatest of instincts, but a woman always knew when she was being cornered. It happened too frequently in their life for comfort, and it was something they learned how to deal with it. The cornering wasn't usually done by other women however.

When she glances back, she says only, "By what right did you presume to publish that photo, Amalie?"

She's stopped walking, but Amalie won't get a word out before Stefanie's grasped her throat.

The breath she took in to speak was pushed out of her with a gasp as cold, long fingers wrapped around her throat. Instinctively, her hands went to try and pry the fingers off but it was without avail. Amalie knew that trying to speak or take breaths would only hurt more, but the reaction was difficult to keep from making. Eyes watering instantly with pain and fear, her mind went blank when she tried to recall one spell, just any spell to dislodge her. All thoughts kept coming back to the simple fact she needed air.

Stefanie's breath hitched too, eyes flared red and veins crawling like worms beneath pale skin. Hand unmoved, her gaze focuses on the neck she holds, suddenly twisting her thumb to caress a pocket of skin right beneath Amalie's collarbone. Precious, she thinks, as the blood rushed to her cheeks. It's an assault of scent, of rich warmth, attacking her nose and filling her throat until it's soaked in want. 

Breathing slow on the intake now, Stefanie hisses out, "None." 

It's an answer to her own question. Tony's image had been tarnished enough without the world seeing it in _Poloroid_ color on the evening news and websites. What was meant to sound threatening sounds needy instead, desperate as she suddenly is to sink canines into porcelain flesh. An impromptu feast, perhaps not entirely planned, but not entirely unplanned either. Amalie smells divine, a unique scent of sandelwood and orange making her want to bottle it up to wear like a fine perfume. Remind Stefanie later she truly should go to the store to pick some up. Tony likes that her hair smells like coconuts, but she wanted to remember this scent. It would bring back the taste, a vivid memory now that her vampire mind recorded in such permanent ink. She leans in. 

Amalie magic began acting on its own. Wind whirled around them, air circling frenzied in a way that mimicked her state, but she knew it would amount to a tickle. Air, air, she needed air. It was coming in through her ears, a loud whooshing that billowed the hair up, but she couldn't get air that way.

Amalie choked audibly now, a cough and an inhale stuck in a throat that was constricted. A hand lifted from trying to free herself, and she held it in between their faces. Then she closed her eyes, and shot out a ball of blinding white light.

Wrenched back, Stefanie snarls to cover a whine, her nails clenching thin air and then biting into her own palm. The little reporter had fallen too, she sees as the aftershocks rattle her mind, and despite odd burns spinning up her wrist, scarring against her cheeks and shoulders, turning patches of her dress to smoldering ash -- Stefanie wasn't ultimately deterred. Now she wasn't just angry, or hurt on Tony's behalf. Now she needs blood to heal. Now she's starving. 

Air flew into her lungs too fast, and she coughed and gagged as her bruised throat regained circulation. Her palm and the ends of her fingers black and charred as she pushed herself up on her feet, Amalie tried to run away from the vampire but she was too slow. 

Zipping back to her feet quick as lightning, she lunges again, pushing Amalie's head against the wall and hissing through gritted fangs, "That hurt. And Tony?"

The reporter's feet were dangling below her now; Stefanie has one hand wrapped around her waist and one on her shoulder, pushing slowly up. 

Mouth open in another gasp of pain as her head hit the wall, Amalie swung her feet under her trying to kick Stefanie but her legs were too short. Stefanie had spidery long legs and long arms to match her spidery personality as she captured her prey and played with her food. And once the woman had closed the distance and held her almost as a lover would, Amalie was pinned too hard for her legs to cause any real damage (not that they would have before, not without a little help).

"Tony didn't deserve it. You want a demonstration, Amalie? You want to really know what it is, what feeding is? Need to see it to believe it? Because -," she hisses and leans in to her ear, "I'm happy to provide that." 

Shuddering as breath hit her ear and finished raising the hairs on her neck, Amalie hadn't been listening to a word Stefanie had been saying. It all sounded like growls of rage, incoherent to her ears. She was acting a lot faster than Amalie could respond to. Trapped equally by fear as she was more literally by Stefanie's arms, she only shook her head and blinked away tears. Later she would feel good that at least she didn't beg, but right now she was ashamed she couldn't say anything.

The white burns on her flesh singed, flared painfully, more ash off her dress coating the alley floor, and then Stefanie's sunk fangs deep into Amalie's throat without another thought.

Amalie screamed.

It broke off in splintered pieces when her throat couldn't sustain a note for that long, until something that resembled a gargle left her open mouth. A sob found its way somewhere too as she felt the magic literally drain from her veins. A damoyei's blood was her power source. In it she harnessed her energy directly, a trade-off she had long learned from her grandmother and taken. Every drop shed mattered, and it was leaving her much faster than that.

She brought the same hand up again. Flexing it made the skin crack and bleed but Amalie barely noticed (it probably helped) as she buried it in Stefanie's hair and gripped her roots at the back of her scalp. Quickly, a voice spoke in her mind, before you're too weak.

So she opened her mouth again and began a spell in Ancient Egyptian.

She began the chant with as much energy as she had, but her hold on her magic continued to slip. Amalie repeated it, but as her heartbeat dropped and her breathing slowed, she slurred over words and stumbled over others. The spell wasn't working.

Amalie stopped chanting.

Someone else took over.

A male's voice resounded loud and strong down the alley as he stepped forward. Every step was marked with a word, closing the distance between them. Amalie dropped to the floor again as Stefanie lets her go and stumbles back, vomiting blood that had turned black, as red further drained from her eyes and ears. She falls to the ground convulsing on hands and knees, spewing the congealed liquid she stole. Then her elbows gave way too, and her knees. Without voice to scream, she let out a low whine. It sounded pitiable, small, even apologetic. There were tears crystallizing in her eyes by the time she shudders silent. Then, the real war inside her began. As the blood was gone, her veins turn to sandpaper in the absence and scratch against each other searching endlessly. Agony strikes her jaw as her fangs hang limp and open, cutting her lips as they shiver with the ghost of need, like they remember the sweet warmth they'd been indulging in only moments before and were desperate to get it back, even if she cuts herself to ribbons for it. 

Only once Stefanie was unable to move, on the verge of being calcified, Darrell stopped the curse before it took full effect and ran to his sister.

"Amalie! Amalie," he slid to the ground, getting blood on his pants as he pulled his little sister's head to his lap and grabbed her cheeks in his hand. A quick check of her pulse, Darrell dropped her right hand with a wince and reached for her left, and of her slowly but moving chest revealed she was just unconscious. Darrell sighed in relief and held her closer, speaking assurances in quick French.

He would only be alone for a few minutes more. The footsteps change from languid stroll to hurried trot in no time at all, as if the intruder didn't even need the moonlight to guess haste was needed. As he appeared, his clothes and expression blend effortlessly into the shadows of night, but not his eyes. Those shone bright blue, haunted with something too dark to do anything but shine for everyone to see, not that it would help anyone understand him. The lines of his jaw and fists still gave nothing away as to what it could possibly be.

"Porca puttana -," Olivier said. In his left hand he held a phone, as if he was tracking the vampire with something as rudimentary and non-magical and hilariously simple as GPS. In his right, was a wooden stake. He puts that away before coming closer. Stefanie was down, and by the look of it, in far more pain than he would have given her. 

There was nothing of sympathy on his face as he looked at the Aveniers, but for those bright eyes. Pressing his phone into his forehead, he shook his head softly and thought -- between this, and Tony's show earlier, they were sufficiently warned. At least there was that. Amalie was breathing, though, which was more than he could say for Stefanie's corpse. 

(Thank the Madonna that Tony had chosen to look the other way for her.) 

Crouching now before Stefanie and still a half dozen yards from the brother and sister, Olivier didn't take his eyes off of them even when he's freed a knife in place of his stake. He lifts her head into his lap and tries not to flinch when he sees her blink. It was a reflex, he thinks, a spasm of muscles as they contorted in pale flesh. His eyes are still on Amalie when he slashes the blade across his wrist, cupping it to Stefanie's mouth. He doesn't speak until he feels her begin to suckle.

Darrell brought his sister up into his arms, and then stood, carrying her without much effort. Surely, she wasn't actually this light normally was she? He tried not to think about it and instead just focused on getting her to his car. Thank God, he thought, that he had decided to ignore his sisterÕs wishes about getting home alone and was already en route when he had called.

"She needs blood too, Darrell," Olivier said, not caring if he should call the man by his familiar name or not (surely they were familiar now?), "And I doubt she wants it this way."

Turning his head to the end of the alley, Darrell only noticed D'Grey right then when he spoke. Too worried to be angry at the moment, he knew that would change mighty quick and it was best for both of them if he and Amalie were long gone before that happened. 

That was it. D'Grey did not ask what happened, for that was plain to see. He did not apologize, for it was not his place, and even if there were tears in her eyes, he's not sure Stefanie was sorry. She's grasping his wrist harder now with both hands, greedily taking gulps too fast, yet somehow not a drop was spilling. Olivier didn't even wince. There was nothing new to him in blood sharing, even if he was certain at some point he was going to have to deal with Tony being jealous of it. Let no one tell him his brother wasn't stubborn. The pain was familiar as breathing for him, and it was worth it to see her own chest begin to rise and fall again with the habit.

But he did add, "Thank you, for not killing her. I know you could have."

Stopping in his tracks, Darrell turned around as he was addressed again but this time he looked at Stefanie. Color was returning as she drank from D'Grey's wrist the same way a babe might suckle at her mother's breast. He would have to apologize for that later; it was instinct from the moment he heard his sister's voice carry down the alley with a spell they had found in their grandmother's tome when they were younger. Darrell never intended to kill her, and finishing the spell wouldn't have either, but he wanted to diminish suffering, not cause it. 

His gaze rose to D'Grey again. Hard brown eyes met blue ones unusually soft. Was this where Darrell was supposed to thank him, for giving Jean the same "courtesy" of not killing him? 

Olivier meets his gaze head on and, seeing the challenge there, his own darkens with heat. So much for civility, he thinks rueful, but then -- there was no need for them to lie either. Stefanie's hands were beginning to cut off blood flow contradictorily as she squeezed him closer, the gulps and gasps she gave more sound than either man emitted. They didn't blink. He might have thanked Darrell for keeping her from dying, but that didn't mean he thought they had anything more than a temporary truce. The damoyei skill the man had exhibited was...well. Olivier smiles at the thought of the challenge.

Darrell didn't say anything at all, only left them both on the floor and got his sister out of there. A month ago Olivier had gone to a fundraiser for this man's mayoral campaign but only came away knowing it would not be mutually beneficial for him. The Avenier last name did its job in politics well. As DGrey watches him walk off, Stefanie's gulps were getting painful even though he kept a steady smile until the car drove off. He was right. The Aveniers were declaring war. 

Finally letting out a gasp at the pain, he rips his hand back from Stefanie's mouth and closes hand over his wrist. She moans and shuts her red eyes, a small fist pounding at his thigh. Looking at where she hit with a tiny bemused head shake, he said, "No, Stef. Tony's going to be cross enough you drank from me."

At that her eyes flicker open, a pink tongue darting out to clean her lips and cheeks. Her fist opened as she thought about it. It was a pleasant thought, Stefanie admitted, with shy giggles to herself as she rolls up off his lap. 

"Right," she said in a low murmur, "he'll get over it."

Her limbs were aching, even as she watches burns heal with slight fascination. Nothing was as ever-present as the ache in her throat. Frankly, she was glad Olivier still had hold of her, for she was half contemplating using the new angle to sink into his throat, and half contemplating darting inside the nearest building and taking the first human she found.

When she realized how quickly her thoughts turned to murder, she stiffened, and blue eyes return slowly. Olivier waits, unmoving, rubbing blood splatters off her chin and his jacket sleeve. For the first time he seemed irritated. Oh, Italians and their Armani, she thinks. Groaning at the effort, she forces fangs back up and rubs at her eyes like she was waking from a deep sleep: both fists to clear exhaustion from them, repeated round circles like she had when she was a little girl. 

"How did you..."

"Find you?" Olivier asked, bemused with an unnecessary eyebrow hike. "Lucky guess. It's cute you think it takes more than five minutes for my brother to notice you're missing from his party, though."

She gives a dry chuckle as she stands, not letting him help her. Heavens, her hair was disgusting, and just looking at the blood stains on the alley floor was enough to make her feel queasy again. With another blink, she was back on the street. Olivier followed, almost as quick as she was to her chagrin. 

"Did he miss me?" She asks, like she didn't know. The shy smile was back. "I only left to... " now she pauses, apparently just noticing the absence of Amalie. She frowns, and rubs back at her eyes. "I didn't want to kill her. Just...scare her. Because of what she said about Tony."

"Well, you did that," Olivier said conversationally, "And I wager Darrell scared you."

"Darrell was here?"

Unsurprised she knew him, Olivier was more startled to see her wince. Oh, Stefanie he thinks. They must have been friends too. Why was it she seemed to be such good friends with so many of his enemies? Or rather, had been, because Darrell didn't seem to be the type to let her attempted murder go or anything. Stefanie seemed to come to the same conclusion and looked to her shoes, frowning and feeling small. 

Then she shook her hair out, ignoring how it made her stumble with dizziness and a renewed thirst, and took a hair tie from her wrist. As she snapped a messy ponytail up, she said, "Of course Tony knew I was gone. All my attention wasn't on him for a minute there and he did just get out of prison. I should be showering him with affection. Or showering with him and affection." That makes the corner of her mouth perk up. 

Olivier just chuckles and (ignoring her protest) placed a hand around her shoulders to guide her back to his own car outside the bar. After he put her in the front seat and told her he was going to get his brother so they could go home, he paused a few feet away from her open window. She was sitting, one of her juice boxes now in hand from his glove compartment, a few papers scattered on the floor mat because she couldn't bother to clean them up. When she looks up from the empty box, he meets her gaze and spoke just as casually as he'd offered his vein. 

"Also? I'm never lending you my laptop again."


	39. What's this favor, Darrell...?

With Amalie lying in the backseat, Darrell was driving as fast as he could and dared towards their grandmother's house. It was currently empty, given that she was in Egypt, and so stemmed the basis of its appeal at the moment.

He didn't dare take her to the hospital, and wait for her to be transferred to a yei doctor, one who would most likely be chaoyei. Amalie needed a doctor who at least knew about blood magic even if they weren't actively practicing damoyei themselves.

Holding the Bluetooth button down on his steering wheel, he voice-dialed the only person he knew who fit that description and who Darrell trusted to keep a secret. He sped up to avoid a red light when the phone was answered.

"Gabriel, this is Darrell Avenier. I need a favor, are you busy?"

That depended highly on your definition of 'busy', is what Gabriel thought first when he picked the phone up. After he cast a brief glance at his stack of manilla folders, he considered the person asking. Ever the man who replaced him as captain of their secondary's basketball team, Darrell had never been one to ask for help if he could take any other avenue first. He put the folder down, and stood up, pressing the phone harder to his ear as if doing so would make the call more private. He was alone in his office nearing twenty-two in the evening, but he paid that no mind. Triage demanded he pay attention to the most dire situation first, and what else could have made Darrell call him?

"I always have time for an old mate," Gabriel said. Even if Darrell had actually been Ansel's, for Gabriel was used to taking care of his brother's friends. 

Well, if he wanted to get technical, Darrell had always been better friends with Ansel, but he wasn't going to argue that right now. As long as Gabriel helped Amalie, Darrell would buy matching best friends forever necklaces for all he cared.

"What's this favor?"

Darrell looked over his shoulder to look at his sister again. Turning quickly back to the road, he took a left as he began to explain, "Amalie's been hurt. She lost a lot of blood, got roughed up, maybe a concussion too I don't know."

Gabriel was standing the moment he heard the word 'hurt'. Fetching the bag that had been a gift from his parents on his graduation day, he zipped it up. Despite the appearance of no hurry, his moves are determined, efficient and certain. In his ear there was silence, but he did not trouble himself with that. The man would continue once collected, and he wouldn't interrupt that process. 

His throat had closed up, and his gaze caught the image of her burned hand on the rear view mirror. Darrell cleared his throat before he spoke again.

"Her hand's burned black from a spell, and she's unconscious right now. I'm heading to my grandmother's place," he'd had more than one party over there when he was younger so it was definitely not a safe house but it was safe tonight, "do you remember it?"

"I do. I have one question." Gabriel's eyes fell on the coolers across the hall through translucent doors, as he lifted the bag to his shoulder and locked his door behind him. "What's Amalie's blood type?" 

"AB negative," Darrell answered definitively. He remembered too well the elation of his grandmother and mother when they discovered Amalie had such a 'rare' blood type. They had told her she would be able to do great things. Darrell had then told them of course she would, but it had nothing to do with her blood type.

Gabriel moved instantly, unlocking the door with both silver key and a wave of his hand to get him by without having to check his badge and so lock his entry. There was nothing he could do about security cameras, but plenty to be said for the fact that no record of anything missing probably decreases the odds of someone looking at the tape. 

"I just arrived," Darrell informed Gabriel as he pulled up to the curb, "how fast can you get here?"

Bag unzipped, he's tossed a half dozen bags of AB neg as fast as he could into it and zipped it up before Gabriel answered, "Half an hour maximum. Lay her on the couch and keep her comfortable in the meantime. Turn the heat up, and if she wakes, make sure she doesn't move too much but don't let her fall asleep again. I'll be there as soon as I can, Darrell."

Darrell nodded to himself, before giving a brief word to tell Gabriel he understood. Looking around, he made sure that there were no neighbors looking around curious. Monsieur Pallade and Madame Rosseau in particular, as they were the ones who tended to call the cops about the noise complaint. Satisfied he wouldn't be seen carrying Amalie into the house, Darrell goes to turn off the car and end the call.

He pauses, biting his lip and halts at the door. Hovering hand over the knob, his eyes shift as he looks up from test tubes and beakers to add, "It's important you breathe too."

Hand hovering over the keys, Darrell did the opposite of what Gabriel suggested as all breath left him and didn't return until the automated voice for the Bluetooth spoke that the call had ended.

The worry was gripping in Darrell's voice. Shutting phone off, Gabriel was out the door without another word, badge and bag tossed to the front seat of his car so he could grab them quickly. It was impossible not to consider what had happened while he drove, and it would be dishonest to say his mind didn't immediately turn to the name D'Grey. Between blood loss and the fact Darrell wouldn't take her to the hospital, not to mention a certain article presently in his email inbox from his delighted brother, Gabriel was certain the man was involved somehow. The disquieting thought made it hard to swallow, his knuckles turning white on the steering wheel as he pushed pedal an inch further down.

Turning his car off, he kept the keys in his hand as he got out. Taking Amalie out of the backseat, he carried her in his arms again and up the steps to the front door. He fumbled with the keys once or twice until he got the correct one in and barged through the door, closing it behind him with a foot.

With Gabriel's instructions replaying in his mind, Darrell gently placed Amalie on his grandmother's upholstered couch. Putting a cushion under her head to make her more comfortable, Darrell only left her side for as long as it took to turn up the heat and build a fire. 

Shrugging off his coat, he winced as he only now realized a sudden pain on his side. He unbuttoned his jacket and then a couple of buttons of his shirt and noticed an ugly scab over his ribs. Passing a hand over it revealed what he had expected: it was rough and dry like stone. He buttoned his shirt again and pushed up his sleeves and drew up a seat next to Amalie on the couch. 

He took a hold of her uninjured hand and looked her over again. The two puncture wounds on her neck had stopped bleeding, but there were bruises forming in the shape of fingers. He breathed in and out through his nose, and swallowed another lump in his throat. Darrell stayed like that, holding on to her hand until she started coming to. She stirred, mumbling incoherently and tried to stand up.

"Amalie, shhh, shhh, it's okay, you're safe now," Darrell assured her, putting a hand on her shoulder to try and keep her lying down. Her eyes were still half-lidded, too exhausted and hurt to open them fully. Darrell's jaw clenched to hide a mouth about to tremble in both anger and relief.

"Darrell," Amalie managed on a hoarse throat, coughing and gagging. He conjured a bottle of water, feeding it to her in small sips.

"Is she-"

"Stefanie will be fine," Darrell answered, unsurprised that was Amalie's first question,"I picked up your curse, but didn't finish it. D'Grey fed her his blood."

She nodded once, head barely raising from the cushion before she was wincing and moaning in pain.

"Hurts," she said by way of explanation and Darrell held off a chuckle.

"Yeah," Darrell nodded,"don't worry, Gabriel Dorat's on his way. It's important you don't fall back asleep, okay?

"Okay," Amalie agreed, her voice sounding smaller than it had in a long time. That, more than anything else that happened today, angered him most. It wasn't difficult for Amalie to make herself small and unseen. It had been the opposite for a long time. Her eyes were still watered, hands trembling with either cold or residual fear. Amalie wasn't difficult to scare, but she never let that stop her. That was evidenced plainly by a blackened hand that was a testament to fighting back.

"The article," Amalie offered for an explanation, but Darrell wouldn't have it.

"Shh, don't strain yourself soeur." Darrell remembered the back and forth quipping Ansel and Stefanie had done at his fundraiser party a little more than a month ago where his friend had asked Stefanie if she had switched one D'Grey brother for the other. The attack on his sister was done in Antonio's name, the same as the attack on Jean had been.

Amalie blinked away tears and mouthed an "oww" before she smiled up at him sadly, "I wasn't made for this, Dare." She closed her eyes and Darrell rubbed his thumbs over her knuckles.

"You kidding? You've been kicking ass, girl."

"My ass feels more sore than my foot, right now," Amalie admitted. She'd had a hell of a day that was for sure. Darrell was tired of seeing his little sister attacked and subjected to this treatment. Just like it had happened when he visited Jean, Darrell only grew more determined in what he was setting out to do.

Darrell kissed her fingers, "I'm proud of you, Amalie." She chuckled, and coughed again. When it had calmed again, he fed her a little more water.

Outside, as Gabriel walked up to the main door knocker, his hand was twitching against the phone in his lab-coat pocket. The trouble was there were too many people to call. His brother might know what happened. Irene or Stefanie might. And there...was, always Daniella. Lord knew it wasn't as if she would share anything she knew with him, but maybe she needed to know. She'd certainly want to. Amalie was still, if he recalled correctly, her best friend. 

Yet he put his phone away without sending so much as a text. Best he wait until Darrell explained what happened, not to mention once he was certain Amalie would be all right once more. Oh, and he probably shouldn't just go to tell the world he'd stolen five ounces of AB negative blood either. Even if he knew how they'd react. His brother would smirk. Irene would likely come up with a clever quip to call him naughty. She still was taking pictures of him to prove to people her doctor really was "that hot." Daniella would high five him, and Stefanie...would ask if she could have some. 

Sometime, Gabriel reflected as he jogged up the steps, he really should get out and find a few new friends. Would it be too much to ask for to put in the want ad that they not be immediately willing to commit a gross number of felonies? 

(Probably. C'est la vie.) 

He knocked, calling out in a quiet voice, "Darrell? It's Gabriel." 

Only then did he think he should probably take the lab coat off, and stop flashing credentials if he didn't want to be the next victim of the D'Grey's retaliation. 

The siblings looked at the door at the same time, Darrell immediately standing and walking over. Even if he was immediately cleared of worries by hearing Gabriel's voice through the door, his heart was having a harder time catching up. He left things with D'Grey in a way which could only be described as a temporary ceasefire, but you never knew. 

Darrell opened the door, stepping sideways to let Gabriel come in and closed the door again once the man had walked through the threshold and towards Amalie on the couch who was fighting to keep her eyes open.

"Thank you for doing this, Gabriel," Darrell spoke sincerely, his tone much calmer than before now that Amalie was awake, even if it was in obvious pain. Gabriel barely nods to acknowledge his thanks, eyes on Amalie - lingering in particular on her hand. The skin there was burnt black, alarming him far more than the blood loss or potential concussion at the moment. Her weakness was no doubt directly connected to the state of shock; most burns would not include loss of function or sensation, but connected to damoyei spells cast without the benefit of actual blood...

Taking coat off, he places the bag down next to her and summons a half smile to meet her gaze with. "Bonsoir, Amalie. I'm glad to see you are awake, that's a good sign. I'm just going to take a look, see what I can do to help, all right?" Amalie nodded, to show she understood.

Now he knelt, taking stethoscope and flashlight out first, gripping the latter in a gloved palm and twisting to place the former around his neck as he looks at the finger-shaped bruises on hers, dotting around the bloody animal-like bites. Gabriel bites down on the back of his tongue. Vampire, then he thinks, but that still didn't rule D'Grey out entirely.

Why must all supernatural creatures be such messy eaters? The thought was chilly, tingling on old, forgotten marks on his chest, but Gabriel's smile widens briefly anyway. Taking out next two of the blood bags, a needle, two alcohol pads and gauze, he meets her gaze again before he speaks again.

"Before we can treat the burns on your hand, we need to get blood pumping through there again," he explains briefly as nimble fingers pull another vial out of his pocket and begin injecting it straight into the bag, "and fast. This is a compliation of water-soluble amino acids I'm adding now -- each having more than one organic radicle with a carboxyl group..." He pauses, seeing as how her staying awake was imperative. Best he didn't put her to sleep with the facts.

"It'll help regain sensation, prevent your blood from congealing if it's cut off from your heart in your hand." Which it looked like it was. Exhaling after he finished, he pulls her arm down to lie flat, finding a blue vein in her elbow and rubbing it with the alcohol pads like he was tenderizing a steak. His gaze remained steady, moves smooth and hands gentle but firm in the way one only gets once they've held a scalpel. 

He murmured a word in Latin too under his breath, to ensure she wouldn't feel the needle as it went in, beginning to pump intravenous solution and blood back into her system. As the bag drained, he kept one hand on her, the other lifting his flashlight now and looking directly on her eyes. He kept it off for now, raising only one finger.

"Follow my index finger with just your eyes as best you can, okay?" Another nod from her. He starts moving, tracking her responses after a quick glance at his watch to start the stopwatch. While he does, he asks calmly, "Can you tell me what month it is, Amalie? How old you are? The title of your blog?" 

Amalie tried not to whine as she concentrated on the finger, feeling like her whole body was on a lag. She followed it as it moved, and it only made her headache feel worse and was dreading the moment that flashlight turned on.

“February,” she answered after a pause and a hard swallow, “twenty-three, Liberté, Égalité, Vérité.” Her blog title was a variant of the French motto, with a substitution of ‘truth’ instead of ‘brotherhood’. She almost laughed; that fit kind of perfectly right now. 

“You read my blog, Gabriel? I’m flattered.”

Gabriel focused on the work, the numbers and figures only correlating in his mind with her slow answers that were at the least, correct, if slowly given. He's not surprised. The color in her cheeks could only be synonymous with massive blood loss. That wasn't conducive to mental acuity in the slightest. Yet, for all his focus, her jest made his smile genuine and a soft laugh leap from his chest. 

"First thing in the morning while I have my coffee," he suggests. It was not entirely a lie, for Gabriel did read the papers at breakfast. That morning, in fact, he'd read her article thanks to it being left in his inbox by a brother who never had grasped the importance of subtlety. 

"Well, thanks for waking up with me," Amalie mumbled, wincing at the sudden brightness of the flashlight.

She did have a concussion, he thinks after checking briefly with her pupils dilating under the flashlight, but a mild one -- and that alone was a relief. Lowering the light as he switches it off, Gabriel paused his questions to swap the blood for another bag similarly treated without needing to withdraw the needle. 

She closed her eyes after he turned off the flashlight, feeling a little nauseous. Amalie just wanted to rest her eyes for a little, just a tad, just for a little bit. She was just so tired.

Rubbing her temple to check for swelling, Gabriel leans back on knees like a dog on haunches before he asks quieter, "Can you tell me what happened? I need to know every injury as best you can describe them."

Blinking her eyes open again, she noticed Darrell had stepped closer, probably worried about her falling asleep. Gabriel's question took a few more seconds for her to process, and she nodded.

"I was walking out of the news station, someone called my name and I turned...," she frowned as she faced a problem of whether or not to reveal Stefanie's identity to Gabriel. Who he know her or even care? It's not as if he was as well behaved as he appeared to be. Daniella told her stories. 

Oh man, what was she going to tell Daniella?

"Amalie," Darrell spoke for the first time in minutes, drawing her back to the room, "it's okay just tell him."

She sighed and nodded again, "It was a vampire named Stefanie."

Gabriel froze. Then kept moving, as soon as he'd noticed what he'd done.

"She's really pretty, I mean if you're into that whole long legged model type, and really angry about Tony. And she grabbed my neck and choked me and I panicked so I conjured a ball of white light and burned her a little. I hurt myself more than her really." She swallowed again.

Gabriel disconnected the second bag, feeling odd. On the first hand, he was relieved that her voice was getting stronger in his ear and on the other...now he felt worse. Yes, he supposed Stefanie would be angry about Tony. it wasn't like Gabriel ever would have congratulated her on her self-restraint before she became a blood-drinker either -- and he should know. Who better than one who had to learn the art of it himself?

"I tried to run, but she pushed me against the wall and I hit my head. Then she lifted me off the floor before she dug her fangs into me, it really could have gone worse."

Yes, Darrell thought, she could have finished the job with no one to stop her. D'Grey had been there too quickly to not have been following her but at the same time not quickly enough to have stopped the damage to his sister. Probably thought it wouldn't be such a bad thing if Amalie got roughed around a little, just to scare her off. Darrell tried not to think about it again.

Unclipping the bag, Gabriel nods slowly. In contrast his hands moved quick, pulling the needle out and then pressing his thumb hard over the tiny wound he'd made. The other massages above it, anything to get blood flowing. After a few moments, he's nipped, tucked and bandaged gauze over it; the other bags he had with him were just in case something went wrong.

"Darrell came and got her off me, but when she let me go I think I hit my head again because that's all I remember," she sighed and closed her eyes again but kept talking so they wouldn't ask her whether or not she was awake.

"And that I hurt, a lot, and I'm tired. And I've had a really shitty day of being publicly and privately antagonized and humiliated and used and I really just want to sleep, Gabe, when can I sleep?" 

"I know you do," he said quietly, "that's all you want to do when you have a concussion. I'll give you something for that first, and your hand, and then I swear, you can sleep."

Should he tell her now he'd be staying here for observation and waking her up every two hours to ensure she didn't slip into a coma? Maybe he could let Darrell, while he fetched ice from the kitchen, or something. He didn't doubt the marks on her neck would heal, but he was going to clean the lesions to prevent infection, bandage the cuts. 

Gingerly lifting her hand with his gloved fingers now, he nods slowly to himself as he looked it over. In the back of his mind, he thinks about a book describing such injuries that he'd never had the opportunity to practice before and then, that he wasn't going to admit to his novice status to either Avenier. That would ruin their confidence. Exhaling, he first admits, "I know Stefanie, Amalie. Or...I thought I did. She hasn't been a vampire very long. It probably won't mean much but...the Stefanie I knew would be very upset to think you were hurt."

Darrell figured, judging by the pause of recognition when Amalie said Stefanie's name. He almost smirked to realize that both of the Dorat brothers identified Stefanie without a last name, because there was no need. Instead, Darrell rubbed his mouth and hoped (naively) that what Gabriel spoke of the blonde woman remained true.

"Yeah, she sure looked upset to kick me when I was down," Amalie spoke, glad that her words were slurring less even though her exhaustion grew. 

"You weren't down, kiddo," Darrell spoke, patting a hand against her foot.

Gabriel lowers her hand from his vision and then adds in exactly the same voice, "And respectfully, think that you were kicking ass tonight. This spell you cast...I do know a way to heal your burns but, you'll have to let me wrap them up and keep them in a cast-type hold for a few days. And they're going to scar, there's nothing I can do about that, they've reached the hyper dermis. On the bright side? The medicine I already gave you in addition to this spell...you shouldn't lose any motor function, just, be sore for a while."

"That's good," Amalie agreed, wincing a little every time her hand moved. You were supposed to slice open your palm for the spell to work properly after all. That way, the magic happened outside the body, not in. She could have ended up hurting herself more seriously than this. She didn't care about the scar, as long as she would regain full function of her hand.

"Very good," Gabriel agreed as he started rummaging through his bag for the right medicines. As she laid back, he brought out the antiseptic and creams for her neck, then put those aside to hand her the water and pill for her head first. Amalie swallowed the gel capsule and drank half of the water before she handed it to Darrell to set it down again. Then he busied himself cleaning and bandaging the lesions, working as soft and fast as he could to prevent her hurting even more.

"Thank you, Gabriel." Amalie offered him a momentary smile when she was sure it wouldn't appear so pained. 

He smiles back at her and nods, before saying in a bare whisper, "Of course, cherie. Just...try not to make a habit of it, all right Amalie?" That was the only reason he didn't say 'any time' after all. 

"Doctor's orders," Amalie nodded once. Like she had told her brother before, she wasn't made for this stuff. Too much excitement in one day for her, only weirdos and freaks like Daniella thrived and got off on it. Amalie needed to rest, she felt drained. Ha, oh that was actually accurate too.

Gabriel waited until she was nodding off again before he fetches the other things from his bag, ripping his bloody gloves off and donning a new pair. 

Then he goes back to her hand, testing that each finger still had full range of motion with a wary glance to her face, hoping she couldn't feel it at the same time as knowing nerve endings shot out was bad, and her feeling the pain would have been good. Gabriel had always been a contradiction. Then he lifts a needle to his own finger, pricking it without more than a steadying breath. The thought of what he was about to do...

Her spell after effects were obvious reason enough for his disquiet, weren't they? And there was more to it, for Gabriel. He didn't practice magic -- chaoyei or damoyei. One look at his brother could explain why to anyone who cared to ask. Still, he wasn't going to fail the woman...especially now he knew Stefanie would feel magnified guilt forever too if he did. 

The hesitation was brief but it did not go unnoticed by Darrell. His sister's mind might have been lagging from the blood loss (but she had been transfused now) and the concussion, but his own was hyper aware of his surroundings at the moment. He didn't dare question Gabriel right now as they were dependent on him for Amalie's well being, but Darrell couldn't help a moment of wondering if he ought not to trust him so. He watched, leaning an inch closer.

So he begins reciting, a low rhyming French first, then the only few words of Greek he knew, pressing the blood on his finger into her burned wrist hard. Amalie flinched, feeling that ten times more than the mobility checks, and chewed the inside of her cheek as she felt it working.

Hissing and cutting off as he felt his own wrist shake, he dug teeth into his bottom lip. Then jammed the fist down his pant pocket, not paying attention to his own tremors when he could watch her skin knit over with triumph instead. For an instant, he thinks of what he gave Daniella, idly thinking he should have kept a few for himself. Then he puts it from his mind. Speaking of his committing felonies for his friends...or ex-es, in that case. Yeah, he really did need new friends. 

Darrell watches in relief and Amalie in amazement as the skin of her hand and fingers began to heal. The more circulation that flowed through the hand again, however, the more Amalie felt that sore pain Gabriel had mentioned. 

He lifts his hand now, ripping a bandage with his teeth to press over his cut, then quickly moving to wrap her hand up as he promised her he would. When the gauze was secure, he ripped that too and tucked around her elbow before fetching a sling and laying it gently on the coffee table.

Exhausted, and trying to hide his own trembles, Gabriel sat back now, finally looking up at Darrell. It felt strange to look at him. He'd grown just as much as Ansel had, but without the asshole Alpha to hold him back...and here they both seemed to understand protecting a sibling determined to get themselves in trouble. 

"She'll be fine now, Darrell," he says as reassuringly as he could, "just...tired and sore for a few days. And I'm going to write her a prescription for her head. Once the blood settles though...her body can start truly mending on it's own. She'll be ravenous too. Is it...okay, if I stay here tonight so I can keep observing her?"

From his spot standing over her, and now breathing infinitely times better than before, Darrell began a slow acquiescent nod. He was still a bit distracted as he watched Amalie lose the battle against sleep, one that eventually they all lost. Darrell was going to stay here tonight too, he wasn't going anywhere.

Then he paused and grinned, half teasing, "Or rather you can observe that I mean nothing but to offer the most professional reference when I suggest she could benefit from a massage too?" 

Looking at Gabriel again at the joke, Darrell suddenly chuckles and then shakes his head. Well, apparently he was already 'waking up with Amalie' as his sister so eloquently put.

"As long as you don't charge extra," Darrell smirked and took out his phone again.

"I'm going to call Dani, she'll kill me for not calling her immediately. Do you want some coffee?" Darrell gestured to the hallway that led to the kitchen.

"Least I can do." 

It's funny you say that, Gabriel thought without voice to say it. It felt like the least he could do for Amalie now too when it had been Stefanie who hurt her. Not that he had any ownership over her (heavens knew)...but he cared about her too, and it...was a common feeling for him to have, residual guilt over the supernatural crimes people he cared about committed. 

Instead Gabriel just said back, "Oui, coffee would be excellent, merci." 

Especially if it would quench his own trembling hand. Taking lab coat off now and tossing it over the chair, he rips bloody gloves off to throw them and the empty bags and vials out. Then he clicks his fingers to make the trashbag disintegrate to nothing. It disposed the evidence. 

It's only a minute later as he's brushing ashes off his hands in the sink that Gabriel realized he cast the spell to do that. His back stiffened as a shiver of how easy it had been slips down his spine, and he vowed under his breath it truly would be his last. 


	40. Why do you think I need yet another person willing to kill to defend me?

Pouring himself a stiff drink back home, Tony was preparing himself for the information he was about to receive from Stefanie. Something told him, okay his brother had not any kind of intuition, that it was going to be a doozy.

Tony had tried not to think about how long it was taking his brother to check on Stefanie when he was still at the bar. He definitely hadn't had one hand in his pocket holding on to his phone so he could notice more easily when it vibrated with a notification. It turned out he hadn't needed the precaution after all. Olivier had come into the bar to tell Tony it was time to leave. Needless to say, Tony was hard-pressed to leave his own party when it was so early in the night, even if it had started pretty early. It's Stefanie, his brother offered as an explanation.

Party over.

So he grabbed his coat, said some goodbyes to friends that were still around and followed Olivier out to the car. Stefanie was in the front seat chugging juice boxes like a starved leper who had been banished to the desert and had just found her way to a well.

The car ride had been mostly silent, as Tony did his awful best not to start something yet. Those extended long minutes of silence were torture, and he would know as he'd actually gone through it before.

"Okay," Tony turned around to face Stefanie fully after taking a drink, "on a scale of Adipose to Kaiju, how disastrous was it?"

"Ghost," Stefanie answered at once through blood-stained teeth, the same moment Olivier said, "Baby dragon."

Then they turned to look at each other. Truthfully, Stefanie hadn't known Olivier had lingered in the door. Yet there he was, arms folded, with seemingly no intention of leaving her alone with his brother. Pulling her lips down to pout as she rubs the bloodstains off of them, she asked, "-Baby-?"

What was so baby-ish about nearly eating someone? Just because she wasn't at Drogon's level of child-eating (she flinched) - it didn't make her a baby. Brat she'd cop to (only internally), princess even more so but -baby-? Olivier appeared as confused as her. 

"Like an actual ghost?" He was less indignant. "Because I have news for you, you weren't exactly silent, Stefanie."

She scoffed, looking at Tony with eyebrows lifting as if to say 'honestly what have you taught your brother?' Tony just shook his head, washing his hands of his brother's ignorance.

"Like the -direwolf-.'" Stefanie said, as if explaining one plus one equals two, not fish. (Or in this case, one plus one equals direwolf). Then she tossed the last juice box into a waste basket on the otherside of the bar. Instantly, she regretted it. Stefanie was hungry. Now she didn't have the box to pretend she still had more to drink. 

"Oh," Olivier said with a look of dawning comprehension, "Yeah, okay, that fits."

She narrowed her eyes at him and worked very hard not to stick out her tongue. "Oh, go call Dani, D'Grey." 

Then she turned back to Tony again, folding her arms on her chest to resist the urge to lunge. There's no stopping her eyes from glancing at his neck. Behind her, it appeared Olivier's turn to scoff. Until he thought better of it, and said, "...I suppose I should. You did try to eat her best friend."

Tony didn't even flinch, though he probably should have. That made the amount of people Daniella was angry with in this house raise to three. Oh, this was going to be super fun.

Without taking her eyes off Tony, Stefanie stiffened up and muttered with every image of a petulant kid in primary school, "I didn't -mean- to."

She didn't, she swore. 

Tony scoffed, though it did end up coming out as a chuckle. He quickly wet his drying throat again with another swig of bourbon. Well, as long as she didn't -mean- to, right? 

Olivier paused at the door frame, hand on his phone already when he smirked to himself. 

"Actually, I changed my mind."

"Damn right I'm not a baby," Stefanie muttered. 

"Nope. You're a fairy."

She swiveled. Her hair flipped over the left shoulder as if commanded by an unseen wind goddess. Tony smirked to himself, swirling amber gold liquid in his glass.

"D'Grey." Stefanie growled, but he just smirked at her with an index finger waving at the ceiling. 

"Yeah, a fairy. Only, less Puck, more Torchwood."

That's my brother, Tony nodded at him eyebrows raised with the sentiment. Way to redeem himself from the Ghost mishap.

He retreated as she contemplates. In her mind she thinks about that; the creatures of eternal children who control the weather and move faster than sight and kill people by suffocation visavie rose petals. Her tongue caught behind her teeth, suppressed a smile as much as a pout. Idly, she gave a cutesy shrug to Tony and let her hair fall back. 

"Okay," she admitted, "that's fair."

"Okay, Torchwood fairy destruction. That's still pretty fucking scary, not to mention unnecessary," Tony took another quick swig and finished his drink. The ice cubes clacked against the empty glass as he set it on the table. Stefanie didn’t move. Unnecessary, was it? Defending him was just so goddamn unnecessary? Oh Antonio — she shakes her head to herself, then decides she’ll focus on being proud he called her scary.  

"What in the seven hells were you thinking?!"

“I don’t know,” Stefanie snapped with no small amount of sarcasm, “maybe I wasn’t. Maybe I was just hungry, bitchy, tired.” 

Her eyes flash. She takes a step forward. That’s what he thought, after all, right? Being a vampire had turned her into a monster with zero self-control and no soul. Her hands smack at her sides, stomach twists at the mental image of Amalie against the wall, feet kicking, throat curdling, blood crawling. Tony wasn’t so far off, maybe they could skip fighting about it.

(Ha, ha. Have you met them?)

“Or! I was thinking that an article was published two days ago - not that anyone bothered to tell me, as I’m just some little girl who shouldn’t be told what’s going on. And maybe that the article was unfair, bitchy slander and I didn’t appreciate it, maybe that’s what I was thinking. I didn’t want to bite her, I wanted to scare her because she slandered you, and that is not okay. I just…” Stefanie takes another step, bending forehead and loose blond strands into her palm. Then she snapped, indignant, “How was I supposed to know she knows some Middle Eastern spell to calcify me, anyway? She blasted me, I fought back, Darrell showed up apparently, then Olivier did and woke me up, end of story.”

"Calcify-," Tony stopped himself, raising his hands up and then shaking his head. No, nope, he didn't want to get into that just now even if it did explain her more ravenous than usual hunger. They could talk (re: argue) about that in a little bit, right now he was still trying to process the fact that she had just attacked Amalie over what she wrote in the paper.

Stefanie looked up as he echoed her word and shrugged, pleased with herself, nodded. Her eyes flash with a moment of regret as she met his gaze again. Tony had enough people who hated them, a few of them could hate her instead. Right? So what if she’d gone too far, if she hadn’t meant to hurt her so badly?

“She slandered you.” She repeated, because that she knew, and that wasn’t okay. 

"Libel," he said a little softer as he watched her, swallowing a throat that would probably give Stefanie's constant dry and burning throat a run for its money. Libel was the legal definition for the written word, slander for the spoken. Stefanie snorted at the technicality and tilted her head at him, looking like a kitten who was 'sorry not sorry' for scratching up his new couch. 

He didn't move away from the steps she had taken forward, but whether that was because he was frozen in place because of shock or because he couldn't bear moving away from her anymore, he didn't know.

"And it was technically true, but that's not the point Stef. I had it worked out," he pointed at his own chest, "I slandered her right back. We were even and now you've-" after gesturing at her with an open palm he dropped it back against his thigh, still incredulous.

"To defend me?" 

Her eyebrows furrow. What did he mean he slandered her back? She was still missing part of this story? How in the hell was that possible? Tilting her head back straight with the frown as she tried to process it, she exhales long and slow. Then finally! She gets it the same moment he seemed to. 

"Yes," Stefanie said. Her hands unfold from her chest. Eyes wide and blue, she lets the corner of her lips crack open. Still not sorry, she wanted to add, but she and Tony had a pact not to lie to each other. Brushing her own nails off on her burned and torn dress, she double checks there weren't any flecks of blood left on them. It was difficult, since she'd painted her nails red in honor of Tony coming home earlier...or maybe it had been on purpose in case she did need to hide blood. There was no fooling her nose, though. Licking the tip of one in a small flick of a pink tongue, she looked back to Tony's eyes as she did.

"And...maybe because I was tired, and bitchy, and hungry." She repeated. It was only half a tease. Tony laughed once, even though he knew he shouldn't have and it was only half funny. 

Her nose wrinkles up before she asked, "What did you lie about?" 

"I told all of Paris on the five o'clock news that she came up with the whole thing to get back at me for dumping her," Tony shrugged, swallowing again. He was still having some difficulty processing what Stef had done (because it wasn't residual guilt, nope). Stefanie's eyes went wide. The lie was worse than she could have imagined, in that Tony insinuating her sex was to blame struck her as far more dishonorable than straight up attacking her. But then, she had learned from her brother and Tony...well clearly he learned from his.

"Insinuated she slept her way to the top, some other things. How in the hell did you miss all of that? You don't read the article until today and are completely oblivious to the most popular story currently running in Paris, damn Stef." Tony sighed, rubbing a hand over his face before he laughed again.

With her best Donna Noble voice, she flipped her hand, hair and chin as Stefanie intoned, "Scuba diving." Tony smirked at that.

Actually though she had been underwater that afternoon. At the spa he ducked out of on her before they could share so much as a massage or fruit smoothie.

"Oh this is so fucked up," he said in between his laughter that bordered on hysterical. On that though, they agreed. Stefanie had become the very thing he had told her vampires were destined to be: elitist self absorbed arrogant bullies, and she had done it because someone dared to talk truthful shit about him.

"Calcified trying to defend my nonexistent honor, oh that's rich, this one's for the books."

"Nearly calcified, your brother took care of it in no time" she corrects petulant and maybe a little to make him jealous, "and you shouldn't have lied about her, you make it hard to defend you." 

"He fed you," Tony realized after a moment, blinking once with the information. Better than being turned to vampire stone, really. It was a good thing Olivier had been there then. There might have been casualties instead of just near casualties.

"He did," Stefanie confirmed. She recalled Olivier's jest that his brother would be cross enough she drank from him. Perhaps it wasn't a jest. It was not entirely intentional, more the fact that a bleeding wrist thrown in her face. She wouldn't apologize for that either.

Stefanie wrinkles her nose again to stop her tongue from coming out. "But I'm not going to apologize for defending you. I'm stubborn like that." 

"There's a very fine line between defending me and attacking her, Stef! You could have killed her! Why do you think I need yet -another- person willing to do harm for me?"

Stefanie winced at that, thinking ah, the...rare valid point. Then she huffed, anger flared. She didn't need to to breathe anymore than Tony needs another attack cat. Maybe it hadn't been about him after all. Stefanie hadn't lied to him once in this conversation and her first answer had been she didn't know why she did it. It just...had seemed the right thing...

"God, I want to," he made a throttling motion with his hands but instead of choking her, he closed the distance between them and kissed her.

Stefanie met his mouth hard, and hungry. There had never been a man quite so talented at taking offense to the defense of his honor as Tony D'Grey, and he was not ungifted in turning offense to lust either. Stefanie hummed her appreciation into his warm mouth, trying desperately to keep her mind on the feel of him firm against her, of his hands on her neck clutching so desperately he might be trying to choke her after all. The fervor of their embrace scalded skin still pale and healing, but she'd always loved marks from lovers. Badges of honor to show off how much men need her they had been, only now she marked him too. 

Wrenching her mouth from his, nails dug in to clutch his shoulders as she gasped to him with what remained of the breath she drew minutes before, "Do your worst."

“You’re crazy,” he breathed out against her lips, a half laugh escaping with his words before he crashed his mouth against hers again. It wasn’t an instruction he knew how to follow or keep, even if others would say otherwise. The worst seemed to be Tony’s normal, but the talent he had for it would imply that it was also his best.

And Tony lived in contradictions, especially when it came to Stefanie. He was as furious with her for doing something so stupid in his name, as much as he was delighted. Thankfully there was one way to express both sentiments at once.

An arm dropped to drape around her waist, pulling her closer as he moved his mouth against hers. He was about as hungry for her as she was for him, only not quite so literally. If he focused, he might have tasted the blood on her tongue, but he didn’t dare. Alright, maybe his hunger might have been somewhat literal too, perhaps.

“Calcified,” he murmured as he pulled back to air, a reminder and an exclamation of his continued incredulousness, “you idiot--,” Tony pressed his lips to hers again.

"It hurt," she whined, the sound landing fevered somewhere against his throat and ear. Her eyelashes flutter at him, blinking half an apology, half a seduction. Then he took her mouth for his again. His arm had become a vice around her waist, as if he not dare let her out of his grasp lest she run away and do something stupid again. Her own hands wrap, one flat on his shoulder blade, the other on his backside cupping hard. It wasn't like she lied. Whatever that spell did made the stolen blood inside her congeal and turn to blackfire making her liquid and sick until she began turning to dry stone. It. hurt. And if Olivier had not gotten there...

No, she wouldn't think about that. Not when Tony was so warm, so present, so eager and furious with her it seemed he might try to eat her himself. He was welcome to her veins, she thought, but only if she was welcome to his.

“I bet,” Tony replied, and this time when he kissed her, for a moment, it was softer with the unspoken worry and concern. 

"It did," she murmured still petulant and pouting no matter how often he kissed it away, "but it's nothing I can't handle..."

The hand she cupped lifts him against her as she pushes off from the ground to find the nearest hard surface. It transpired to be the bar, and Stefanie is not sure how it is she ends up sitting on it, in place of Tony. Not that she cared. Her legs spread apart to welcome him in, and the ruined dress lifted its short skirt up her thigh as she does. Nails dragging down, one hand still grips his neck, the other rubs hard circles on lower back, slipping under the shirt to reach skin. 

Tony was unsurprised for the small change in scenery; he had been getting antsy about moving anyways. Where Tony would have tried to find his way to another room, however, Stefanie contented herself with the closest and sturdiest surface. Happy for the newfound support, Tony found his way between her legs (it would always feel like the right place to be). He dragged a hand up her thigh to slide the skirt further out of the way, mouth incessant in its endeavor.

Abruptly, she startles still, looking down at his blue eyes heady with rage and want. There was something else in them, she thinks, and it's so foreign to see she can't begin to name. All she knew was her hand at his neck released, her fingers -- the pads, not nails -- gracefully dancing against the curve of his collarbone to cheek. One index finger keeps him still, to let her stare into the gaze so captivating, it was like he'd chained her to the spot in his arms and wasn't ever going to let her leave.

Then she met his mouth to his again, languid and slow, her nail already back to tracing the vein on his neck with another whine of need in his ear. Her heel grips him to her as she muttered into his mouth, "Tony..." A pleasurable shiver ran down his back when her breath hit his ear. Her voice was rich velvet, even as he felt her need grow under his hands and mouth. Maybe at another time he would have made her work for it (maybe), but the word ‘calcify’ was still running rampant in his head and he would rather it stop.

He kissed her bottom lip, soon after bringing it inside his mouth completely to nibble and suck on it, and after pulled back an inch. Tilting his head to the side, he positioned his neck right by her mouth. Stefanie whimpers in answer, her lips gliding over his throat. His hand reached and buried itself in hair he now felt dried with what must have been blood, pulling her in the only inch of separation there was still between them. Her forehead bent. Though her eyes are shut, hard, they're vibrant in red need that seems to burn through the lids as they press hard into his neck. She pressed harder, like it was the only thing keeping her mouth from touching. 

“Drink,” he instructed, even if it was seemingly unnecessary, because he needed to know whether he could say the word aloud or not. Another whimper answers him, and her mouth touches sensitive skin. Once, twice, three times. They traced up and down a bare few centimeters. He trapped her there; his firm grip on her head keeping her from pulling away, her back squeezed between him and the half wall of the bar. Two dull thuds echoed in her ear as she kicked heels clean across the room; locked legs around his waist until she's scared any more pressure would snap his spine in two. Then she opened her mouth and let her tongue trace the same path of a willing vein (once, twice, sweet and soothing) before she finally obeyed.

Her fangs sink heavy, fast and smooth as she could manage with hunger threatening to rip her apart. A groan reverberated in her chest, but she doesn't dare open her mouth to let it out and risk losing a single drop. Her hand slipped to grasp his head, knot locks of dark hair around her knuckles and yank his neck further sideways to deepen the bite. Tony hissed at the rough movement, but said nothing else in protest. His free hand wrapped behind her knee at his waist, fingers sinking into her skin, itching to leave a mark like she left hers on him.

Throat flooded with familiar cinnamon warmth, she paused with the odd thought there was something strange. Something...different. His heart was beating a steady thrum beneath her fingers; the affection and apology inherent whenever he opened a vein to her wasn't new. Of course Tony felt he owed her an apology; he blamed himself for what she became.

The thought was angry. She slid to the left, higher on his neck and bit clean through again, getting more suction from the new angle and deepening the thrust of her fangs. There was still something she couldn't identify -- and she hates it, suckling greedy to determine what it was, desperate even - though that wasn't a word she's fond of using with him anymore. As her fingers tug on his hair again and she hears him gasp, she realized abruptly what was different. There was no fear in him -- no gripping panic or resignation sunk heavy in his blood -- at least, there hadn't been.

Murmurs of protest caught in his throat; he knew he was going to be doubly sore later, even if now all he felt was a pleasant growing numbness. No one was more surprised than he that he would be doing this willingly and on the verge of fully enjoying it. A voice in his mind was preparing itself to yell a loud, resounding ‘I told you so’. He didn't want that voice anywhere near here.

Sighing, it was only when he felt his knees on the verge of bucking under him (man, would that be embarrassing) that he started tugging backwards on her hair, breathing out against her ear, “That’s enough, cara.” 

Stefanie shakes her head against him, determined to keep drinking, wanting to ban that word from his vocabulary. No, not 'cara', don't be ridiculous -- "enough." There was no such thing, she thought. She never had enough blood, enough life, enough love, enough friends, enough satisfaction -- never. The only thing she had "enough" of was his using the word to justify stopping, either himself from acceptance or them from achieving complete intimacy. 

Though she'd never told him she wanted it either. That stopped now. 

Slipping fangs out with her decision, she licks and nips with blunt teeth around the wound to clean up, shuddering full with the thrill of him inside her. His whole body felt heavy which was ironic because technically he was lighter than before she had drank from him. He winced still as she traced sensitive puncture wounds with her tongue, as if she could lick them clean and healthy like a cat. 

Stefanie felt human for a brief moment as her eyes soften, veins fading from bulging around the irises as she cups his cheek with one hand. Her knees dig in his lower back, pull her forward until her skirt's more up on her stomach than thighs. Then she lifts her leg, ankle wrapping around his neck and making a curtain of it over his shoulder, her hair falling down over the other as she shakes a sheet of gold out, her neck bare.

"Not enough," she argued against his lips, "I just," she kissed him, "have to learn to share." 

Her fangs shift forward, but all she does is prick her tongue with it, slicing the rose flesh straight down the middle before burying tongue and blood into his mouth. Immediately, Tony felt reinvigorated. His hand pulled her hair toward him again, grabbing the back of her neck as he sucked on her tongue. Warm blood mixed with saliva as he felt it flow down his throat, the sweetest nectar he had ever tasted.

Nails scratching up her bare thigh, Tony deprioritized breathing as he continued suckling the blood from her tongue. Desperation creeping in as he felt himself need more blood than he was currently drinking, Tony’s blunt teeth came into the equation. They caught on her bottom lip, biting harder than usual and splitting her lip. He sucked it into his mouth as well in the middle of a moan, tasting elation on his tongue. Stefanie gasped, a tiny sound more human than she was, then ripped her nails down the front of his chest to find the hem of his shirt. Scraping it up, her hands move fast, repeated, one on his back, one front, both scraping and scratching like a kitten with a new felt post. That is, if the post scratched and bit back. Swiping her tongue against the roof of his mouth with just the tip of it, she wrenched back ignoring the splits and cuts as she went, needy and greedy. 

Her arms finally tug her shirt up, off, even as he has such tight hold on her hair she gets tangled in it above her head. Chest heaved into his, bra slipping in sweat (his) and blood (theirs) to uncover most of one breast and hang in a gap on the other. There's an elongated pause as they look at each other, her with toes wiggling near his ear, him with fingers wiggling under her skirt, and then she's freed her head long enough to toss the shirt to join her heels.

In one hand she cups her own chest now, baring it the rest of the way and slicing hard and fast with her nail to nick a better vein for him to drink near her heart. The other nudged him towards the blood until she feels teeth and tongue, then grabbed the wrist he'd had in her hair to bring it to her own lips. She bit down.

He barely felt the plunge of her fangs into his wrist, so enthralled he was with drinking from her ample chest. He lapped at the trail of blood that escaped from his mouth before returning to the cut she had made, knowing that it would heal if he left it alone for too long. Tony’s hand traveled to her side, nails scratching curves and ribs as he feasted. 

Teeth and mouth stained red, he coaxed the blood out of her vein further, and felt it hitting the back of his throat hot as he drank. When he moaned against her chest, another trickle of blood escaped his mouth. Tony followed after it eagerly to her hard nipple and licked and sucked it clean. Blunt teeth nipping it once, he replaced his mouth with his hand as he went back to the cut. Palming and kneading, he was even more pleased when more blood flowed out of the wound and into his waiting mouth. Stefanie tilted back, revolving against the marble in a bone-deep shudder of pleasure. Her back arched like a snow leopard mid-stretch, bringing his wrist with her with one hand and dropping the other to hold his neck to her chest. Her leg slid down his back with the lean, ankle hoisting her up against his waist and lifting her off the bar. As the neglected nipple throbbed against the black silk, she yanked her teeth out and licked up his wrist and fingers before demanding in high, breathy heat, "Don't show favorites, Tony."

Her fingers itch around his neck trying to direct him away from the cut to the other one, shivers gripping her skin wherever his tongue chased. It appeared no use. Frustrated and feeling lopsided, Stefanie forgot his wrist for a minute to prick her finger instead. Then she ripped the bra off, straps still loose circles around her shoulders, and drew her finger around the other nipple. Shimmies against his cheeks and neck direct him this time to the new trail of gleaming red, drawing it on her in little hearts like cherry syrup.

Then she slipped her finger lower, down her stomach, slipping further back on the bar again to try and arch, lean back, lay back, lay down, anything to increase leverage and pressure between her legs. 

Tony obliged. 


	41. You want to know how it feels?

He should be illegal.

_(Oh wasn’t she clever.)_

    The point stood. Arm falling over his forehead, chest bare, glistening and rising with calming rhythm, small wisps of brown hair tickling the air with his breath — it should be illegal for one to be so attractive even when asleep. She drew a finger down his chest, toying and teasing, satisfied when he doesn’t stir as much as she is pleased by the smirk of his lips. There’s a small circular part in them, like even his mouth still hungered for her index finger. Whispering to ask if he was awake, when he’s silent, her expression changed. Steel glinted in her eyes. Mouth setting in a compassionate smile, like that a mother gives a sick child, she resolved herself before rolling out of his bed. Reaching for her robe first, she quickly followed that with slipping a mess of curls into a ragged bun.  
The window was still open. A three-quarter moon shone down, haunting them with ghostly halos.      Temptation struck with the urge to snap rubber band against her skull to make sure it was tight enough, but he’d hear that.  And that was another kind of temptation altogether, but now was not the time to revisit the choice she’d made. It was started. She couldn’t back out, not safely. How many times did he need to urge her to take care of herself? If this could work, she'd have no need even for Gabriel...

"Dani, no." his voice had been all low groans from the moment he turned up at the door. There'd been guilt she wouldn't allow him to explain on his cheeks. His mouth tasted of copper and salt, his kisses sought for answers in her skin. There'd been a fever in him she scarce knew how to explain. Then his teeth started snipping, kneading, biting until he snatched back -- turned away from her, afraid.  "I'm all right," she had promised him, seeing the flutter of want in his dark eyes.

Her phone still blinked it's "no-battery" red LED light from where it hit the floor when he dropped it. He didn't take much convincing.

Ballet slippers on her feet, she toyed with the edge of his carpet glancing back at him with a chewed lip. Some of her gloss is still on his o-shaped mouth. Breath flickered in her throat, teased her heart. As her right hand caresses a giggle watching him rest, the left closed on a black hilt.

 _"Where's your knife?"_ She'd asked him, naked. His bedroom was dark, then and now, a window spilling a light snow-dusting on his fine carpet. Olivier looked startled to be asked; he tried kissing her with distraction to no avail.

This athame is five inches, crowned in an amethyst not unlike the one on the finger wielding it. Knuckles whitened over it. Then she heard him murmur, hand falling off his forehead and groping fingers as if for the empty spot in bed. Feeling a peculiar sensation in her chest seeing this, she retreated to roll her secretary desk open as quietly as possible. Removing the false back, as her long fingers of dark nails tinkered with vials over a silver, inlaid bowl she considered this.  
_"Doesn't it hurt you?"_ he'd muttered with his fingers in her hair, soft on the nape of her neck. He spoke like he had phrased it like a question at the last minute, like even asking her instead of telling her was something shameful. No, she swore and ignored how she sounded like it was anything but.  
Not many could she imagine would have been capable of being alone with a blade near the bare throat of Olivier D’Grey. It wasn’t vanity on her part to consider she’d be the first to do so without him knowing. The blade flipped between forefinger and thumb. Spin delicate and gesture one of ease, the reminder of her skill calmed her.

 _"I already--"_ He started, then faltered, tightening a pit in her stomach. She knew he had 'already.' Her hand seized his neck and she used the momentary shock of it to flip them. Her knees dug into his sides. She mounted him then, fierce and proud. Everywhere their bodies met, they left bruises.  
It’s not as though the irony escaped her. How many times would his father have warned him against girls like her? She’d been a cautionary tale as much as an exotic femme her whole life; for men as well as women, she can’t lie (ha), would do well to stay away from her. That’s what makes them perfect for each other, she thought. No one in their right mind approached D’Grey.

As silvery steam rises off the bowl that’s frozen ice to touch, she casts a glance back, ensuring he slumbers on. Her lips now move in silent incantation, a Sanskrit invocation and prayer. She watched him bathed in the mockery of a halo, the light she kept the room otherwise void of and considers waking him now.

_"Permettemi di darvi--di dar--cazzo--"_

Whatever he'd meant to promise her, to give her, Daniella gave him instead. His eyes rolled back in his head, his mouth peppered the sides of her neck back, any spot he could reach without having to move. He muttered something about that being his folly; always taking, never giving, and closed his eyes against her spine. There'd been no other explanation.

A chill slipped through the window as if a remnant of her shiver then. She shook her head, looking back to the bowl and blade. Minutes rolled, timed with only the timbre of his breath, the creak of his oiled bed springs. When she raised dark eyes again, it’s as the steel ripped her finger open. Scarlet drips into the basin as she whispers, the invocation not paused. On the bed, Olivier licked his lips. When it finished, she spared a moment to giggle. 

Poor, starving hybrid.

 _"I'll take too much, dolcezza. Let me--_ " She had lifted the blade to her neck for him. He'd cut off. Then he'd cut her.

When he emerged, lips stained and breathless with euphoria, her eyes chanced to open. The guilt was back, then gone. Before she could protest again, he'd had the blade on his own finger and pricked it, buried thumb in her gaping mouth. Si, cara, and then he told her something else in Italian. She only caught the word for "blood" and the word for "adore," and truly could not tell you which would frighten her more.

Exhaling now, two swipes of her finger against a handkerchief turned her face serious again. A few minutes pass before in a huff of regret she picked bowl, blade, and a tiny brush up. It wasn't working, she thought with irritation. There was a fizzling on her skin-- stop that, he's stirring again--and a fading where she tried to paint. The image in the standing mirror, ever so strategically placed near his bed, gave her back a slight figure in dark satin and bare thighs holding steel over a sleeping men. I'm like Gertrude, she thought, then shook out her curls and rested on the edge of the bed. Her weight rolled the sleeping man nearer, his mouth finally shut as he shifted an inch closer. Confusion fluttered across her cheeks. He looks peaceful and pained at once.

Then again, was that such a surprise when his brother so recently slept in a jail cell. When having gotten him out, the 'how' of it all was likely to make Tony hate him? 

    _I don't hate you,_ she wanted to tell him, but stayed silent because she knew she should. When he looked guilty, she looked accusatory, staring down atop him with judgment from on high. He only took her higher. D'Grey was a bloody persistent devil.

 _Do I dare?_ She wondered, not daring to even think her real question: _Should I?_ If Daniella asked that question, she knew she'd be lost entirely. She already knew that answer.

The briefest image of ribbons in pigtails like Lila used to wear crossed her minds' eye as she drew one from her hair now to gently binds his wrist. Skin warm against hers, a bemused smile lifted her lips. When it seemed he might rouse - she’s surprised he’s stayed down this long and thinks he must never truly relax anymore - she murmured the soft lullaby she used to sing to lay the triplets to sleep. Only now, it’s laced with the hint of yei. Just the briefest touch to tell him she meant him no harm colors the tune. It would not work if she told it as a lie. Her thumb traced his steady pulse, sensitive as the pad drew tan callouses against pink flesh more vulnerable than he was ever like to admit.

 _"Would you protest,"_ she'd asked lying on her side when they were done and tracing words like adore and amethyst and desire on his skin, _"if you knew I could replenish faster?"_ He looked thoughtful, then, _"If you could as fast as I"_ , and he'd kissed her, unaware then as now.

Still singing under her breath, she opened the knife between forefinger and thumb again. The flash nicked his arm. It tensed, vein protruded blue and straining against her jade-green ribbon. Uniform drops painted down the side until she caught them in the steaming bowl, the hiss discordant alongside her hum. As the steam subsides, she is swift to move bowl and blade to end table, his hand to her lap, her lips to his pulse. She coats lips in his essence as he softened, relaxed under tongue and thumb. Soothing until his mumbling is gone, she cranes neck up and licked maroon lips. They look darker in her mirror. Her stained linen cleaned the thin cut wherever her lips had missed as she forced her throat to swallow. Hybrid or her own, it still tasted horrible in her mind.

After leaving her ribbon on his cut to prevent blood spilling, she rose off the bed. Robe strings trailed behind her. Relaxing her shoulders as her gag reflex melts away, she lifted the bowl to her lips to drink a few sips more. Throat coated in pleasantly bitter warmth, it drowned now as if she’s drinking honey and wine.

Intoxicating. Dizzied, she lowers the bowl when she judges half is gone, then rests against her stool. Silk (close enough) slipped off her shoulder. Hand rising to her neck, she turned so her back is half-bare and facing the mirror, capturing loose curls to trap all hair (Lord he had made a mess of it) on the other around her neck. Lightly, her nail scratched the bare spot, dragging so tan turned white as she drew. An old book, maybe forty pages of yellowed parchment and calligraphy rests open in front of her, these hieroglyphics rather than Sanskrit. The rune she’s open too resembled half the moon her lover sleeps in the light off, half the clouds obscuring it she’s shaded in now. Her brush dipped.

Hissing for the first time herself as the chilled liquid brands the sensitive skin she offered, the brush hairs prickled, painting in careful strokes. Her eyes stay fixed over the shoulder to watch her drawing carefully in the mirror.

A hint of the side of her chest is swallowed by excess fabric and tugged curls evident of fingers through it. When she’s finished transcribing, she tensed. The rune turns white under her view, burning ice into her skin. Wincing, it’s forgotten as the mark dulled with her repeating the incantation. As fast as it burned it faded, turned white to red, to pink like knitting skin, to yellow like old scars in moments. She downed the rest of it, drowned her stomach and licked blood off her lips.

When it’s empty, and her back clear, she pulled her nightgown strap up, robe and hair, standing to scatter curls back across her neck. Her lips smack, like coated in fresh lipstick.

This time, relief flooded through her as she examined the unfaded mark. _I don't look like Gertrude now, baby. Just myself, tired and freaky as ever._

Within moments the skinny paintbrush, silver bowl, book and athame are all replaced silently behind her false-backed purse. Flush with success, she took the robe off and climbed back into her side of the bed and rolls neatly back into place against his chest. Her nails reached up to Olivier’s arm, tug off the emerald ribbon and let it flutter to the floor alongside her end-table. Her triumphant grin only widened to see: his cut is already gone.

Kissing the spot again, she shut eyes that gleam a slight amber-gold for a flash of a moment — before turning them both away from the half-moon’s light. Olivier’s arm came down to greet her in warmth as she fit against his side like a puzzle interlocking in place. Eyes still shut to carry her after him to sleep, Daniella thought, _it’s like I never left._

Perfect.

  



End file.
